


thunder under earth

by nymeriahale



Series: honey you're familiar [6]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M, canon typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 106,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23049337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: George and Owen return to the reality of their separate lives after an off season spent together. In the wake of Owen’s public coming out he must navigate increasing responsibilities, while George struggles to find comfort in an unsettled team both on and off the pitch. With unexpected house guests, nosy teammates, and a head coach who seems to enjoy pitting them against each other, they may begin to understand the repeated warning - it’s hard, dating a rugby player.Sequel to honey you’re familiar. Set in the first half of the 2018/2019 season.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Series: honey you're familiar [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1017006
Comments: 236
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from NFWMB by Hozier.
> 
> This is a work of fiction and as such nothing is to considered implied or insinuated about real life rugby players.
> 
> Updates due at 3pm UK time every Saturday!

George lets out a deep breath, tilting his head back and cracking his neck. That had been a tough first day back. He loves training, probably more than the next bloke, but only a day into Tigers' preseason he feels like his head’s about to explode. The gym work had been okay, helped along by him and Owen both picking that up again as soon as they’d got back to England, but the meetings had been overkill in George’s opinion. He knows that it’s important that the international players get up to speed with the rest of the lads, who already have weeks of preseason under their belts, but cramming it all into one day doesn’t seem to have worked, at least for him.

Still, there’s peace to be found in this pub garden, time to try and digest. It’s not Italy, or even Owen’s family house in Devon, no sound of the sea, not even the sun on his skin like he and Owen had up at his parents’, but the passing rush of traffic on the village roads will do just as well, for now.

“Fordy!” comes the disruptive cry from Ben Youngs, inevitable. “I’ve missed you so much!”

George cracks open an eye. “We’ve been together 6 hours today,” he points out. “And I left you at the bar like 30 seconds ago.”

“Yeah, but you were away _all_ summer, so he’s still recovering,” Tom Youngs says dryly, taking a seat at the head of the table. 

George grants him the respect of opening both eyes to acknowledge his words.

“Thank you Tom,” Ben exclaims, throwing an arm out towards his brother, entirely ignoring the sarcasm in Tom’s delivery. “Tom understands my struggles.”

Jonny May drops into a seat between George and Tom. “It has been hard, mate,” he says, deadpan. “Having to deal with him without you, you know?” he gestures to Ben.

Greg Bateman barks out a laugh, taking the seat on George’s other side. “What about having to deal with _you_ without him?” he says to Jonny. “I think you’re a bit confused about who’s the most difficult here.”

Tom lets out a long sigh. “I’m so glad you’re back, to help deal with all of them.”

There are cries of protest from all sides, and George hides his smile behind a long drink. “Oh, it’s a pleasure,” he says, sarcasm heavy, once he’s sure he’s got control of his expression.

There’s a second round of protests, and George lets this one crack him. He laughs, throwing his head back, laughs harder when that makes them all argue louder. He has missed these boys. He loves Tigers, loves the guys he plays with - he’s lucky enough to take Ben and Jonny on tour, but Tom as a club captain is solid as they come, and Greg not far off. They’re good lads, lads he’s glad to call teammates.

“How was everyone’s first day back at training?” Tom eventually asks, cutting through the chaos.

And they’re off, gossipping at top speed until the food comes, through that, Greg and Tom dishing the dirt on what they’ve missed over the last few weeks - George feels his headache worsen. He doesn’t know how Ben keeps up with all of this - Tom he understands, it’s part of his role, but Ben just does it out of sheer enjoyment. George thinks he keeps up with his squadmates fairly well, doesn’t embarrass himself at least. He genuinely does care about their lives but he can’t keep track of all these details, not like Ben can.

“And how about you,” Ben says, turning to George with a glint in his eyes that immediately puts George on edge. “What have you been up to?”

George shrugs, picks up his drink. “Just holiday, like I said,” he tells Ben, nonchalant.

“What, all summer?” Greg asks. “You look pretty tanned, Fordy, but you can’t have spent the whole summer at Johnno’s place, you’d’ve gone full lobster - what else did you get up to?”

George takes a sip. “Just family time really, nothing special.” It’s true, for all he’s dodging the question. Then he realises he’s included the Farrells in his definition of family, hadn’t even thought, and has to bite down on a smile. 

“Aha!” Ben crows, loud enough to draw the attention of their two neighbouring tables - George hopes they don’t care about rugby enough to recognise them. “If it’s nothing then what’s the smile all about? Where have you been spending your days, young Ford?”

George raises an eyebrow. “I’m middle Ford, actually.”

“Is it your - partner, Fordy?” Tom says, stumbling over the word as he visibly remembers that Greg doesn’t know about George’s sexuality. “Were you spending time with - them?”

George heaves a sigh, eyeing Greg’s slightly furrowed brow. “Yeah,” he admits. “Their family, too, it was - the family time was half mine, half theirs.”

He doubts Ben buys the fob off, figures he probably knows full well that George was avoiding the question, but the admission itself distracts him. “Aww, are you feeling at _home_ with them?” Ben coos.

“Yeah,” George admits with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. He did, and he sees no reason to deny it, or feel ashamed of it. He’s _proud_ of it, if anything, proud that he and Owen are so comfortable with each other, that they fit together so well. 

The summer had reminded George of how much time he used to spend at the Farrell house when he and Owen were children. Elle and Gracie being old enough to have conversations with is new, as is Gabe’s very existence, and George is still conscious of Andy and Colleen’s perception of him, but it had slid into familiarity faster than he might have thought. Part of that was Owen, of course, effortlessly, subconsciously, including George at every turn, in every event and every moment of their shared life. 

It had helped that Owen hadn’t wanted to go out when the rest of his family had, eliminating the potential awkwardness of the two of them having to decide if it was acceptable for George to appear in public with the whole family. Owen hadn’t wanted to deal with the public after the number of people who had stopped him at Heathrow, after what Andy and Colleen had told them of the media reaction in the UK. It hadn’t helped that the Daily Mail had run a full two page article on Owen’s return to the country - but the side effect had been gaining afternoons to themselves a time or two, so George isn’t exactly complaining. 

“Did they come up to yours, too?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah,” George smiles slightly, remembering. Owen had seemed to fit in to George’s family life as well as George had into Owen’s, if not better. His dad was pleased to have a fresh face to bounce rugby chat on, and his mum seemed enamoured by Owen’s easy manner, the charm he’d pulled out on occasions. 

“And you didn’t invite us over to meet them?” Ben demands. “Fordy! I can’t believe you’d leave us out like this, I thought we were friends! Family, even - isn’t this club like family?!”

“We went up to my parents’,” George explains, lucky to have the excuse. 

He and Owen hadn’t had any days alone together since Italy, the way it had worked out. Time with Owen’s family, time with George’s, and then it had been pre-season. George doesn’t know where the summer had gone, hopes they will be able to find more time together before the season starts proper, just the two of them.

“Come on Lenny, d’you expect us to believe you haven’t been driving past Fordy’s house three times a day, waiting for him to get in? You’d’ve known if he was home,” Tom teases.

“I would,” Ben admits. “I have been pining, I’d’ve sensed it - like a dog when the family’s coming home, you know?”

“Yeah, let’s not get into that,” Greg says hurriedly. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Fordy - sounds like it’s going well?”

“Yeah, thanks,” George smiles, doing his best to hide the stiffness at Greg’s assumption. “Really well.”

“When do we get to meet her?” Greg asks.

“When?” Ben demands. “When, when, when?”

“When you get less annoying,” George tells him, to uproar from the table.

“He needs to be told, Fordy,” Jonny says approvingly.

“This is why we needed you back,” Tom adds. “No one else tells it to him straight enough, they’re all scared of offending him.”

“Or of retribution,” George points out, thinking that the far more likely option.

“Think you should be careful then, mate,” Ben says, mock glaring. It does nothing to hide the creases around his eyes, the signs of enjoyment that George knows him more than well enough to recognise by now.

“Hey, did Matt catch you before you left?” Tom asks George, changing the subject.

“O’Connor?” George frowns. “No.”

“Ah, shit - that makes this my job, then,” Tom winces. “Kyle Eastmond’s joining Tigers,” he tells the table.

“What, this season?” Jonny demands.

“Yeah, some thing with Wasps, I don’t know,” Tom waves a dismissive hand at the idea of those politics. “But he’s coming up for training from tomorrow, it’ll get announced then. I’m sure there’s a hotel he could stay in, but we were thinking…,” he trails off leadingly, looking at George.

“You want me to take him in,” George says, flat - it’s not a question, doesn’t need to be.

“You did such a good job with Jonny, after all,” Tom coaxes.

“I mean, look at the friendship you got out of that one,” Jonny preens.

“Me and Kyle are already mates,” George says absently, thinking about it. 

Putting Kyle up for a night wouldn’t be a problem, sure, but he knows from Jonny how these things tend to spiral. It wouldn’t be a night, it’d be a week. Then at the weekend he’d get more stuff rather than look for somewhere to live, then he’d be settled, and before you know it it would be months, and the season would have started. With Jonny George had the excuse of Jonny’s oddball personality to help justify getting him out, the presence of his parents while their house was being worked on, and Sophie had helped. Kyle’s still single, as far as George knows, and he’s not got any other houseguests planned - the potential for Owen visiting aside. It would be harder to get him out. “You don’t want to put him up?” George asks, already knowing the answer.

“Harder with kids,” Tom grimaces. “I could do a night or two, if we really needed it, but anything more is asking a bit much. And I don’t want to inflict Jonny on him this early; we want him to stay, you know,” he jokes. Something George isn’t sure he appreciates, giving the size of the favour he’s asking, especially with the way he’s just said it’s a lot to ask.

“Look, I really can’t,” George says. He could, of course he could - but he’d lose all chance of evenings and weekends with Owen, and that’s not a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

“It’ll be good for you!” Greg teases. “Bit of company in the evenings, you can show him round on the weekend, get you out of the house, make you a bit less boring.”

“Yeah, sounds like it’s going to do wonders for my existing relationship,” George arches a brow, sees Tom recognise the issue.

“There’s only so many guys I can ask,” Tom grimaces, looking truly regretful now. “We can put him up in a hotel, but the board are pretty reluctant to pay any more expense on him, and I thought since you guys were friends -”

“What, are you afraid he’d look at your girl and want to nick her, Fordy?” Greg asks.

The table wince as one, and George sighs. He knows how they feel, he’s as uncomfortable as the rest of them with Greg’s words, but he hopes they’ll become as used to it as he is. George looks up, to where Tom is looking at him imploringly. He doesn’t know if it’s about Greg or Kyle, but he can already tell that he’s not going to make it through the one battle without losing the other. George looks at Greg. There’s a reason he’s at this meal, included in this catch up, regarded as one of the senior figures in the club. He’s steady, someone you can trust. And if George is planning on more of the club knowing anyway -

“No,” he tells Greg. “I’m worried he’d look at my boyfriend and figure out I’m queer.”

“I thought -” Jonny continues the conversation as normal, stalling when every eye turns to him. It seems the others felt the moment deserved more recognition, but George is pleased when Jonny carries on. “I thought you were telling people, about you, yeah? Or not hiding it, anyway? So you could just tell Kyle.”

“It’s not that simple,” George grimaces. “I’m not planning on telling people, or I don’t know if I am, not outright. Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand at Greg before anyone can point that out. “But not the team, I’m not telling the whole team. I might say ‘partner’, I might talk around it, but I’m not planning any more. Greg’s a mate, it’s different.”

“Isn’t Kyle a mate too?” Ben points out, taking George’s focus so he can almost forget that Greg still hasn’t said anything in response to his news, is still blinking at him.

“Sure, he was a couple of years ago, and we chat at matches, but it’s different, come on,” George insists.

“Look, I honestly didn’t think about that, I’m sorry, Fordy,” Tom apologises. “But we really do need someone to put him up. Not even all off season, we’ll have him out of your house as soon as possible - if it makes it past a month I’ll take him, I _swear_. But we need someone to put him up,” Tom repeats. “We’ll get him out of the way on weekends, find things to do, and you need an evening you just let us know. But your boyfriend’s got a house, right? It’s not like he has to come up here, not like there’s no other way you can see him.”

George sighs. He can see he’s not going to get out of this one. Jonny looks offended on George’s behalf by Tom’s pressing, but George doesn’t want to push and cause an argument. And he likes Kyle, he genuinely does. He guesses he’ll just have to hope Tom is as good as his word, and can get him out by the start of the season proper. It’s not like George can force him to take Kyle in after that, after all. “I’ll take him in if you never use the word ‘boyfriend’ again, alright?” he concedes. “He’s my partner, _they’re_ my partner - I don’t want a casual chat, one careless pronoun, outing me to the whole squad - it’s worth practising, yeah?” he looks around the group, Jonny nodding thoughtfully at him.

“Right, sorry, should I be less surprised by this?” Greg says, seemingly finally finding his voice. “You’ve got a _boy_ friend, Fordy?” There’s something more than surprise in his tone - George isn’t sure what it is. He isn’t sure he wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome back to this verse, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! I will be (attempting to) upload every weekend from now on, and have 50k roughly prewritten - 75 chapters is currently a rough guess at the length.
> 
> Once again I hope you enjoyed, and that you all also enjoyed the spectacle of the England match this afternoon! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

Previous chapter:

 _“Right, sorry, should I be less surprised by this?” Greg says, seemingly finally finding his voice. “You’ve got a_ boy _friend, Fordy?” There’s something more than surprise in his tone - George isn’t sure what it is. He isn’t sure he wants to know._

~

“Yeah, I’m dating a guy,” George tells him, shrugging. It’s out there now, he can’t take it back, can’t and won’t change it, no matter what Greg has to say.

“That’s so weird,” Greg breathes. He doesn’t elaborate, just stares.

George blinks back. He hadn’t expected that. He knows Greg had worn the rainbow laces last year, hadn’t honestly thought much of telling him. Clearly he should have. “Thanks,” he responds, flat.

“Oh, I don’t mean like that!” Greg defends quickly. “Shit, sorry Fordy, I just meant -”

Greg takes a breath, and George takes a moment to hope that he might stop there. Might cut off the sentence, never tell George what it is about his sexuality that he finds weird. But of course he doesn’t.

“- like, what, you’ve been lying about girls you’ve dated all this time? Stories about your exes, all of that? I just wouldn’t’ve expected it from you,” he finishes, like that makes everything he’s just said better.

George gapes at Greg. He can see now that he’d been blasé about telling Greg, but he could never have expected a reaction like this, from anyone.

“Do you know what bisexuality is, Greg?” Ben asks, breaking the silence.

“It means Fordy hasn’t been lying,” Jonny backs him up immediately.

George should look at them, express some thanks, but finds that he can’t look away from Greg.

“Oh!” Greg shakes himself. “Oh, okay, that makes sense. Sorry, didn’t think about that,” he grins at George, chummy now.

George doesn’t return the smile. What should he do? There’s little he wants less than to get into the mess Greg had come out with, but he doesn’t want to leave it, either. Instead he sits, lost for words, as a weight sinks in his stomach.

“So we’re all fine now?” Tom glances from George to Greg, smiling encouragingly.

George grits his teeth. “Depends,” he manages. “I might have told some story about an ex you assumed was a girl, before - I don’t remember.” He doubts he has, honestly, has always tried to avoid talking about dating with the lads, as much as he reasonably could. But Greg seems to have it in his head that he did, and with everything else George can’t be bothered to argue that. “Is that a problem?” he challenges.

Greg shrugs. “It’s just weird,” he glances around at the others, who thankfully do not give him the support he’s looking for. “I always thought you were pretty straightforward, you know - rugby family, all of that, thought I had you pretty pinned down. Wasn’t expecting you to have been hiding something like this.”

George smiles, brittle. “I’ve never claimed to be straight,” he points out. “Your assumptions are your business.”

Jonny giggles at that, nervously.

“I guess,” Greg shrugs. “Although - I said girlfriend, earlier, and you didn’t correct me. Just makes me feel like a bit of an idiot, you know.”

“What, and this is so much better?” George demands before he can stop himself. “You think this conversation is better than letting things slide? You’d rather, what, I outed myself every time someone made a stupid assumption? From what age? I first dated a guy before I even played for Leicester,” he tells them, not wanting to be more specific than that. “Should I have been telling every fucking rugby player who asked about relationships from that point on? D’you think I’d still be in rugby if I had?”

“Fordy -” Tom’s voice is cautioning.

George whirls on him, fed up. Maybe he should be watching his tone, maybe it’s not helpful that he’s started to sound mocking, but - “What, he can flat out call me, my relationship, weird, that’s fine, but I can’t defend myself?!” he dismisses Tom with a last glare, before turning back to Greg.

“Those are the choices, after all - oh, don’t start,” he snaps, when Ben opens his mouth to inevitably play devil’s advocate. “You have no _idea_ how hard I try not to get dragged into conversations about dating with the lads - it’s impossible,” he tells them plainly. “The choices are play along or correct them, and that’s no choice, not in this environment.”

“Alright Fordy, alright, I’m sorry mate,” Greg holds up his hands, placating. “I’m cool with it, really.”

“Yeah, and if this is cool with it, imagine how things could go in the locker room, with guys who weren’t. Imagine if I did correct someone, the reaction, the fuss -” George shakes his head, feeling himself run out of steam as he dwells on the reality of his situation. “If I have _ever_ lied, flat out, to avoid something like that - couldn’t you see why?”

Greg looks considering, now. “I guess I see what you mean,” he accepts. “Still weird though,” he grins, like it’s a joke.

George takes a deep breath, and does not grin back. But he doesn’t tell Greg just how little he finds it funny, either, doesn’t know what Tom and the others would make of that. He wishes he hadn’t told Greg, now, half wishes he’d let Greg’s reaction slide - though he knows if he had he’d be regretting that choice instead. The whole thing has turned into exactly the kind of fuss he just described, all the focus on him, his sexuality, in precisely the way he’s been trying to avoid. George appreciates that his teammates are listening, that Greg seems to have moved beyond defensiveness now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t draining.

“What are you going to do now, then?” Jonny asks, curious. “If you’re not doing either of those?”

George sighs heavily. He’s not sure he knows - not completely, anyway, not yet. “Play along a bit less well, I think,” he tells Jonny. “I’m not correcting people, I’m not coming out - it’s on them if they assume something, and it’s on me to try and stay safe,” he says, frank. “But it’s work, to hide everything, think about what I say, and I’d like to do less of that - so I might talk about my partner, let people assume what they will, might let myself call out homophobia more often, more directly. We’ll see how it goes - maybe in a month’s time I’ll be regretting it as much as I’m regretting this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, then shakes himself before addressing the group at large again. 

“I’m not giving the squad anything definite though, not now and maybe not ever - so I need you guys to do the same. I’m _trusting_ you guys to do the same: to say ‘partner’ like I will - or might; to talk about _them_ , not him, and get comfortable doing it. Maybe it is evasive,” George turns to Greg. “But it’s my business, and I’m not telling them.”

Greg nods, slowly.

“Isn’t it easier, now?” Tom asks. “With Faz coming out? It’ll be less of a thing?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” George acknowledges. “And he’s probably part of why I feel like I can do this -” he definitely is, on several levels, but some of them the lads don’t need to know about. “But that doesn’t make it easy. There’s a reason so few players have come out between Alfie and Owen, you know?”

“Don’t you want to?” Jonny asks.

“I -” George sighs. “No,” he tells them. “I don’t want to watch my words all the time, I’m fed up of that, but - no.” 

“Well, _some_ of us are already comfortable talking about your potential partners, Fordy, because _some_ of us have known for ages,” Ben puffs out his chest.

George pulls a face. “Ben, you’ve never talked about a ‘partner’ of mine in your life, you’ve used girlfriend the same as everyone else.”

“You were only dating girls! You told me you were only going to date girls!” Ben defends. “It was accurate language!”

George rolls his eyes. “Well, maybe get comfortable with less accurate language, now,” he suggests, chuckling. “Either way I’m not letting you claim credit for things you haven’t already done, just because you knew before the others.”

“How long have you known?” Tom is the one to ask Ben, though George can see the interest in Greg’s face, too.

“Decades,” Ben answers promptly. “Eons. I was the first person George trusted, he likes me best, sorry to break it to you all.”

George snorts. “You wish. It was about a year before I went to Bath,” he tells Tom. “You know how annoyingly perceptive he can be when he wants to; I made one comment about some actor being hot - I don’t even remember who, now - and he asked, flat out.”

“You should’ve seen his face,” Ben takes up the story. “I’ve never seen anyone so scared in my whole life. Started swearing up and down that he was _only_ bi, that he _only_ dated girls, it didn’t have to _mean_ anything.”

George pulls a face at Ben’s teasing, stuck between sympathy for and irritation with his former self - and at Ben, too, for finding it funny then and now. He’d been good about it after that, better than George had ever dared to hope - it had been that fact that had led to George telling him about his and Owen’s teenaged relationship, last season. He’d been fine about that, too, George thinks, not brought it up since despite all the chat about Owen, about George’s new relationship. Doesn’t seem to have linked the two either, thankfully.

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Jonny says suddenly, interrupting Ben and Greg’s laughter.

George blinks, pulled out of his thoughts, focusing instead on Jonny’s hard expression.

“If Fordy was scared of you finding out, that’s not funny,” Jonny insists, to Ben’s bewilderment.

George can do nothing but stare, touched by Jonny’s unexpected defence of his past self.

“I’m sure Ben didn’t find it funny at the time,” Tom tries to defuse.

“No, he did,” George says, before he can think to stop himself.

Ben shrugs loosely. “I did,” he agrees. “It was. Fordy finds it funny now, I bet.”

“Not really,” George replies, finding himself once again compelled to honesty. With Jonny defending his past self he feels he can hardly do less. And his past self could be one of their current Tigers - he owes them better, he realises. If anything he does can put them in a better situation then he was, he’ll do it. “You’re right, Lenny - I was _terrified_ of you knowing,” he goes on. “When you asked me, when you put me on the spot like that -” he shakes his head. “People might be more open, now Owen’s come out, a bit braver. Like I am,” he acknowledges with a quirk of a smile. “But I literally can’t describe to you the difference between making an offhand comment about some guy and having to tell someone you’re not straight. No matter what anyone says, no matter how many hints anyone might drop, don’t put any of our players - don’t put _any_ one - in that position, please,” he requests seriously, making eye contact around the table.

“Were you really that scared?” Ben asks gently.

“I thought that was what you found funny!” George exclaims. “But yeah, Ben, I was. I wasn’t ready for anyone else to know, especially not in the team. I totally panicked when you asked, I’d’ve denied it if you’d given me half a chance.” 

George takes a breath. _For your past self,_ he reminds himself. _For those in that position now._

“I was scared when Matty asked, last season,” he admits, looking at Jonny to do it. “I told you guys and freaked out the whole evening about what you might do, who you might tell, who else might have heard. I’ve grown up in rugby and you guys know the chat about this stuff, the things you hear. They’re not the kind of things that go away, when you know they’re about you. I’m scared of how some of the lads could react, even just to me talking about a partner - I’m not going to pretend I’m not, that that’s not what this is. I’m scared of what it could mean for my career if people find out I’m bi, what it would do to my relationships within the team, my authority on the pitch - what it could do to the team as a whole. I don’t actually want to lie, not to my teammates, I’m going to try not to - but I’m not ready for them all to know, and I’m not sure they are either.”

“We’ve got your back, George,” Tom says seriously. “You don’t have to worry about us - not with you, and not with any others, either. We’re on your side.”

“I’m not going to promise to never screw up about any of it, but I won’t let anyone know about you, and I won’t press anyone, now you’ve said” Jonny promises earnestly.

“Mate, I think I might need a bit of guidance not to mess up if we’ve got new guys,” Ben says, clearly reeling from the revelation that George’s terror was not a good experience for him. “But I’ve got your back, you know that.”

“Same here, Fordy,” Greg pipes up. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t a surprise, and maybe I didn’t react the best because of that, but you’re still the same bloke - we’re still solid, yeah? Just let me know if I can ever get Kyle out of your hair, get you time with your boy,” Greg winks.

“My partner,” George corrects, gently. “And I’ll bear that in mind,” he goes on, reassuring Greg. “Thanks, Greg. Thanks, everyone,” he says, to the strongest show of support he’s ever seen - coming from his rugby family, the ones he’d been most afraid to tell.

~

George lets out a heavy sigh as he shuts the door behind him, shuts the world out. He locks it for good measure, pulls out his phone to see messages from Owen, the very person he’d wanted to contact. Owen’s first message asking if George was around is from an hour ago, but he’d said to call anytime, so - George starts a video call as he takes his shoes off and climbs the stairs towards bed. The worst thing that could happen is that Owen’s already asleep, and the best - George smiles as Owen’s face fills his screen.

“Hey, babe,” Owen says, smiling back.

“Hi,” George returns, wincing at the thought of what the lads would say if they could hear the fondness in his voice, then wincing at his own reaction. They can’t, they won’t, and he certainly doesn’t mind Owen knowing it, he reminds himself. He drops onto the bed with a bit of a bounce, to make Owen’s smile spread. 

“Done for the day?” Owen enquires.

“More than,” George huffs. “Meetings, meetings, then a decamp to the pub for more of a gossip catch up - I am _wiped_.”

“I bet you are.” Owen’s forehead is creased in concern and George wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth those lines away. Owen’s in bed, too. As George settles against his pillows he tries to imagine the two of them are in bed together, pressed close. “We only had the one set of meetings, but my management badgered Sarries enough that they set up another one special for me. Blooming Zach turned up personally!”

“How was that?” George asks, guessing from Owen’s tone that this has not been one of the few times he and his manager have managed to see eye to eye about his coming out.

Owen pulls a face. “Okay,” he decides. “Didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know - I’m in demand for about 10 exclusive interviews, which I’m not giving.”

“That’s okay,” George encourages. “How do Sarries feel about all the media requests?”

“They say they’re used to it,” Owen grins. “Zach was kind of trying to get them to pile pressure on, make me do at least one for the start of the season, just to throw them a bone - but Alice, from Sarries, wasn’t having it. After Zach left she did say it might be a good idea, though,” he sobers. “Said if I don’t give them something they could just start making stuff up - so I might do something around the start of the season, but she reckons I can get away without doing any serious sit down pieces if I don’t want to.”

“Sounds like they’ve been pretty great, then.”

“Yeah,” Owen’s smile softens.

“Sounds like what your management _should_ be doing,” George adds.

“I did think that,” Owen says wryly. “I guess they’re not used to sports stars giving them this much trouble, used to people being pretty quiet and easy.”

“Trouble,” George scoffs. “It’s literally their job to do this stuff.”

Owen laughs. “I hadn’t thought about it like that! I think Zach expects me to care more now I’ve come out, to be honest - it’ll settle down when he realises I feel just the same about the media as I ever have, and so will they.”

George nods, hoping Owen is right. If he keeps being boring the media probably will give up on him eventually - the question is how far they’ll dig for a story, first. “How were the lads?” he asks.

“Alright,” Owen nods. “A few guys - mostly academy boys - made a point of saying how awesome me coming out was, mentioning friends it meant something to - and some of them didn’t bother mentioning friends, y’know?” And George does know, understands that these are players abandoning their excuses, being brave now Owen has shown them the way. “So, yeah - that was pretty good.”

“That’s great,” George smiles. He’s happy Owen’s getting a chance to see how much what he did means to rugby players, to people who are now where he once was. The fuss at the airport had shown some of the impact, but George knows it hadn’t exactly been the kind Owen was interested in. Owen had been pretty casual with his words, but George can tell from his small smile just how much the reaction of the Saracens’ lads had meant to him.

“Most of the lads were too busy ribbing me on being away the whole summer, to be honest,” Owen goes on, smile cracking into a grin.

“I got some of that,” George acknowledges wryly. “You’d think I left Ben to starve the way he goes on.”

“Aw, he just loves you,” Owen teases. “Who could blame him?”

“Someone better warn Char!”

“You are irresistible, it’s a wonder he held out for as long as he did,” Owen grins, eyes sparkling. “I was gone for you in less than a month, after all.”

George laughs, shaking his head. “It was nice to see him, all of them,” he says. “Tiring, but nice.”

“Yeah,” Owen nods in agreement. “It was good to see my lads, too.” He waits a beat, then - “How long until I can come camp out at yours again?”

George grimaces, Owen instantly frowning in response. “About that,” he says, wincing. “Kyle Eastmond’s coming to join Tigers - embargo until whenever they’re announcing it, I don’t remember, it was soon,” he adds, waving a hand. “But - he’s coming up tomorrow. Tom wants him to stay with me.”

“And you didn’t feel you could say no,” Owen finishes.

“I tried pretty hard!” George tells him. “I pointed out about you - well, not you, obviously. Had to come out to Bateman to do it, that was interesting,” he wrinkles his nose, moves on. “But there aren’t too many guys he can ask, and I’ve done it before; it’d look weirder if I refused, honestly. Tom says he’ll take Kyle in himself if he’s still at mine when the season starts.”

“Which you’d never ask him to do,” Owen points out.

“Of course not. But up until then, I can use it to get Tom to hurry him on.”

Owen hums acknowledgement. “So that’s a no, basically, on coming up to yours.”

“The guys are willing to get him out on weekends, and evenings if I say I want them, but -”

“But it’s awkward,” Owen finishes. “Are you going to tell him, Kyle?”

George bites his lip.

“I mean about you, not us,” Owen clarifies into the quiet. 

“I know,” George tells him. “I just - I don’t know,” he gives in. “I told Greg, and it was - I thought he’d be fine, maybe surprised, nothing more - he wore the laces last year, for goodness sake. But he was _weird_ , made it into some thing about me lying to them all.”

“So what if you were,” Owen says, frowning furiously. “Fucking straight people, as if it’s ever about them.”

George huffs half a laugh in acknowledgement of that truth. “He did apologise, kind of, but - me and Kyle were mates back in Bath, back when I was dating Martin. He’d have more reason than Greg to think it, honestly. It’s put me off,” he admits.

Owen’s anger has switched to sympathy, now. “What were you going to do, with the squad? I know you were thinking about - hiding less?” Owen pulls a face, dissatisfied with his choice of words.

George shrugs expansively. “Play it by ear?” he admits. “Greg kind of hit the nail on the head, I don’t actually want to lie to them - partially because it’d start to be a problem, I think. If I’m pretending to be somewhere I’m not when I’m going to yours, or have family over when really it’s you - it’s not going to take long for someone to just come round anyway, or Joe to say something he shouldn’t. So I was going to talk about having a partner, and let them assume whatever from that. We’ll see if I do that now, though,” he says wryly. For all the meal had ended on a positive note George doesn’t think he’ll be forgetting Greg’s reaction any time soon.

“You could do that with Kyle, at least,” Owen suggests. “Use him as a trial, or something - you’ve got to spend so much time with him.”

“It would be an easier start,” George agrees. He doesn’t really like the idea of watching his words around someone he’s living with, but he likes the idea of telling Kyle even less. “Though if I told him I’m bi it might get him out of my house quicker,” he muses. 

“You think so?” Owen asks. His forehead is creased in concern again, and once again George wants nothing more than to sweep it away, take Owen by the hand and reassure him with that as much as words.

“No, I think he’ll be fine. But I thought Greg would be fine, barely paid any thought to telling him. I guess you never really know.”

“D’you think he’ll be okay from now on? Greg?”

“Yeah,” George nods thoughtfully. “I do. I think he was just - surprised. I guess we’ll see. The whole thing gave me a chance to hammer it into the lads to keep their mouths shut, as well, so that’s something,” he moves on, not wanting to dwell on the negativity.

“That’s good,” Owen soothes. “Silver lining.”

“Yeah,” George agrees.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Miss you already.” Owen is the first one to say it, mouth quirking into a rueful smile.

“Me too,” George assures immediately. “I miss you being right next to me.” It’s not necessarily _Owen_ that he misses, or at least not yet. They’d only parted the day before yesterday, and they’ve video called each night - he’s still _seeing_ Owen. But he can’t touch him, and that he does miss. 

“Yeah,” Owen smiles softly. “You get it.”

“Are you busy this weekend, team building or anything?” George asks.

“There’s that England camp,” Owen reminds him.

“Oh yeah, Bristol, wasn’t it?” George remembers, can’t believe he’d briefly forgotten. “Might see you there, then,” he smiles.

“Might,” Owen scoffs. “I’ll see you there bright and early - guess we’ll be rooming again.”

“Guess so,” George smiles, not wanting to get into a discussion of his England hopes this season. Not while they’re apart, at least. He doesn’t have the confidence that Owen does, much as he appreciates it. Owen might find himself rooming with Cipriani yet.

George stifles a yawn, setting Owen off in turn.

“We should sleep,” Owen says ruefully. “It’s more meetings for me tomorrow - you, too?” he asks.

“We’ll see,” George shrugs. “Think they got most of the catch up done today, but there’s always something. And Kyle’s arriving.”

“I’ll speak to you - well,” Owen stalls. “Maybe not tomorrow, then.” 

George grimaces. “Maybe not, if he’s getting settled in.” After spending over a month together the idea of not knowing when he’ll speak to Owen again sits uncomfortably. “The day after, at least,” he promises.

“And then it’s practically camp,” Owen cheers up. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

“Soon,” George echoes with a smile.

“Night, Georgie,” Owen bids.

“G’night, love,” George returns, cutting the call off.

Calling Owen will be a risk, with Kyle living in the house and the walls not exactly soundproof. For a second George considers watching his words when they talk, but quickly decides that if he’s doing that they might as well not call, and he refuses to lose seeing Owen. It might introduce another level of concealment he didn’t need, doesn’t want - but he doesn’t have another option. George could cut off contact with Owen, or let down his captain and arouse the suspicion of his entire team, or he could accept some potential upcoming moments of awkwardness, the minor risk that comes with it. Put like that, it’s not a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it can't quite make up for the lack of Six Nations matches, but I hope you enjoyed this little taste of rugby all the same! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and [tumblr](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you so much for this,” Kyle says as they pull up on George’s drive. 

Kyle has thanked George for putting him up three times so far, and he’s only been with the squad for four hours. 

“It’s a tough situation, I’m glad to help out,” George tells him. And he is. There’s a reason Tom had asked him, had known he would say yes - George likes to help the club out, likes to be able to. It’s just that this time he’s not so sure he truly is able to.

George pops the boot open, leaving Kyle to grab his own bag - he’d insisted at the training ground - and instead going to unlock the door and disable the alarm. He gets out his phone as he lingers inside the door, waiting for Kyle.

 _he won’t stop saying thank you_ he reports to Owen, just getting the message sent before Kyle comes in.

“Alright?” George checks. Kyle only has one suitcase for now, and George quickly shows him around downstairs before taking him upstairs to the spare bedroom, which he’d just about had time to spruce up this morning. “All yours, bathroom’s just by the stairs -” George gestures to the door “- and there’s an en suite with mine, so don’t worry about that.”

“Okay,” Kyle nods.

“D’you want tea?” George offers. 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about cooking for me, seriously mate,” Kyle says. “It’s enough that you’re putting me up.”

“It’s pretty much easier to cook for two - don’t worry about it,” George tells him. “I’m not having anything exciting, just chicken and pasta, but you’re welcome to share.”

“That sounds great,” Kyle smiles. “I’ll clean up though!”

“No complaints here,” George grins. “I’ll leave you to get settled, food should be about half an hour?”

“That’s great! I’ll easily be done unpacking by then, didn’t bring much for now,” Kyle says. “This really is above and beyond, Fordy. Thank you, seriously.”

 _he said it again_ George sends to Owen, as he retreats to the kitchen.

By the time George has filled the kettle and put a pan on the hob for the sauce Owen has replied, just laughing emojis. George rolls his eyes at the lack of sympathy and gets on with cooking.

Kyle is, as promised, downstairs by the time the meal is ready. George is surprised by how easily conversation flows as they eat; he and Kyle had been friends at Bath, yes, but it’s been a while since they’ve exchanged more than pleasantries. They mostly chat about rugby, nothing deep, but simply being able to share rugby league references without confusion makes it an easier conversation than many George has shared with Leicester players. 

Kyle follows through on his promise to clean up, too, even if it is only filling the dishwasher, _and_ then offers to make the tea. Perhaps having him stay won’t be too bad, George thinks as he heads the living room. He pulls out his phone to find that Owen’s messaged him, asking about training, if Kyle’s thanked him again. George reports that Kyle has, but only for cooking this time, not hosting, and asks after Owen’s day in turn. He’s smiling at Owen’s description of Jamie’s antics in a preseason bonding session when Kyle comes in carrying two mugs.

“Cheers,” George says distractedly, taking his own as he reads on. He laughs as he reaches the end of the story, Jamie entreating the coaches to let them have a sleepover at training.

“Anything interesting?” Kyle asks politely.

George pauses. This is an opportunity. “No, just -” he doesn’t want to say nobody. He could say ‘Faz’, could tell the actual story, but that feels like ridding it of some key context. He could say his partner, let Kyle read into that. “- family,” he chooses, shaking his head. It feels like a let off.

“How’ve you been, anyway, Fordy?” Kyle asks. “Settled back in at Leicester okay, seeing anyone?”

“Yeah, the lads have welcomed me back with open arms, really,” George says, putting his phone down. “Some of the coaching staff’re different, of course, and a good few of the lads, but there’s enough blokes the same to give it a sense of continuity. Got a bit of stick off Lenny about crawling back to them after going traitor for a few of years, but he was bad about me leaving Tigers back in England camp, when I was still with Bath - I don’t know if you remember? - so it wasn’t much of a change to be fair.”

“Yeah, that adds up,” Kyle laughs.

“How about you?” George asks. “How’d you find Wasps?”

Kyle eyes George, presumably not missing the way he’d ignored the second half of the question. He lets it slide after a moment, launching into the story of how he had ended up at Leicester this year.

George flicks his eyes to his phone when it vibrates half way through Kyle’s tale, but despite the implicit permission in Kyle’s pause he doesn’t pick it up. It’s just family, after all. The kind of people who understand. 

George does reply to Owen after the main bulk of Kyle’s story is over, briefly, but finds himself distracted by Kyle’s questions about the Tigers set up before Owen gets back to him, drawn into conversation from that point on. George goes to bed content, but tired, to find that Owen has beaten him there.

~

“We’re in the England squad!” Ben crows, dancing past George in the gym the next morning.

“Yeah?” George grins, grabbing Ben’s phone to look at the list.

“You’d think it’d get less exciting after a while,” Greg comments in the background, earning himself the middle finger from Ben.

“Just because you’re jealous,” he taunts.

Greg might be jealous - George doubts it, reckons he must have made his peace with not being in England contention by now - but George is _relieved_. It’s not that he’d expected to be dropped, not quite, but this is the most uncertain he’s been for years. How much had he managed to give that last week in South Africa, how much had he managed to show, when he’d been dropped even from the bench? Not enough to keep Cipriani out, he sees, careful not to let himself grimace - but enough to keep himself in, and that’s what matters. Now all he can do is get to camp and try to prove to Eddie that he deserves to stay there, that he has more to offer than Danny. Both his dad and Owen’s had seemed convinced he didn’t have anything to prove, but it hadn’t stopped them giving him ideas in the gym over the summer, helping him work on his fitness - something Danny’s rumoured to be lacking in.

George pauses in his perusal of the list, checks over what he’s just read.

“Hey, Jonny, Jordan,” George calls over to where the two of are doing burst speed work. “You’re coming to England camp with me and Lenny.”

“What, _me_?” Jordan Olowofela asks, eyes wide.

“Come have a look,” George offers Ben’s phone out with no qualms.

Jonny follows Jordan over, slaps him on the back as he reads his name, there in red and white. Jordan blinks. George claps him on the shoulder.

“That’s great stuff, Jord,” he says. “You’ve earned that.”

“Spenno, you too,” Ben calls over to the other side of the gym.

George reads over Jordan’s shoulder and finds it’s true - but there’s no space for Dan Cole. He does wince at this one, and when he looks up to find Dan wandering over it’s clear he knows why. He shrugs nonchalantly and turns away without even looking at the list, though he does thwack Will on the butt and tap Jordan only a little more gently on the shoulder. 

“Well done boys!” Coley tells them, looking at George, Ben, and Jonny to include them too. “Good work.”

When George looks through the list a little more closely he finds that theirs aren’t the only interesting selections - Danny Care hasn’t made the cut either. Now George thinks about it he remembers there being some story about Eddie resting them from the South Africa tour, but surely that doesn’t apply now, not when Dan’s training with Tigers anyway. There’s the headline inclusion of Ashton, back from France, and a couple of wingers George doesn’t really know along with forwards he knows only by name.

“Should be good,” George says, looking to Ben and Jonny. “Good mix.”

“Yeah,” Ben nods agreement. “Should be fun.”

“Good work,” Jonny echoes Dan’s praise, messing with Jordan’s hair before going to do the same with Will, getting scared off with a look. He bumps his hip into George’s, too, a little extra reassurance George wishes didn’t feel like validation of his worries.

“How long is camp?” Jordan asks, handing George the phone back - George passes it on to Ben, tempting as it is to pocket it. “Where is it, how are we getting there?”

“There’ll be an message in the WhatsApp group - you’ll’ve been added,” George explains. “Might not have it yet, but something’ll be posted to explain all the details. We might be getting a taxi from here, driving ourselves, could be anything. And it’s in Bristol, nice hotel, just for the weekend.”

“You’ll be roomsharing, buddy,” Ben tells Jordan. “Probably one of the senior lads - me if you’re lucky!”

Jordan groans, coming back to earth with an almost audible crash. “I hope not!” he exclaims, then rushes to follow Jonny back to sprint work before Ben can reply to that.

George catches Will as he too goes to wander away. “Well done, Spenno,” George gets in quietly, squeezing his arm. “Seriously good work, to get that.”

Will looks at him, smiles. “Same to you, Fordy - thanks.”

George smiles at Will’s back. It is good work, to get into an England camp. As Greg had implied, it is the kind of thing you get less excited about over time - but it shouldn’t be. George has worked hard to get there, to stay there, and he should be excited for his accomplishment. Seeing Owen again won’t be half bad either.

~

Kyle goes out with some of the Tigers lads that night, much to George’s relief, leaving him free to video call Owen. He could have hidden in his room, he’s sure, but something like that is hardly the point of him hosting Kyle - he’s meant to be welcoming. He probably should have gone on the night out as it is, provided Kyle with someone he already knows, despite him telling George there was no need. But Kyle has been getting on well enough with Joe, anyway, and knows Lenny from England days - he’ll be fine. 

With his guilty conscience assuaged George sends off a message to Owen, asking if he’s around. It takes him a while to reply, long enough that George makes himself tea, and is sat at his kitchen counter eating it when Owen finally replies. 

_Yeah - call?_ Owen has replied.

 _just eating - give me 10?_ George requests. Once he’s cleared everything away he can give Owen his full attention, not be distracted by his food and the mess in his kitchen.

 _so long as you don’t mind me eating_ Owen sends back.

George replies with just a smiley face, then hurries the rest of his food down and clears up after himself before heading to settle comfortably in the lounge.

“Hiya,” Owen grins as he picks up.

George replies with a slow whistle - Owen is shirtless. “Sorry, didn’t realise I’d called a phone sex hotline,” he teases.

“My on hours are 6 through 7 - you’ve missed out, this is off duty,” Owen explains, propping his phone up and returning his attention to a saucepan.

“What, you cooking _wasn’t_ your caller’s fantasy?” George asks. “Missed a trick there, you should be monetising this - domestic god.”

“God?” Owen laughs.

George just hums, biting his lip for show as Owen twists, muscles stretching.

“I’m telling the lads you said that,” Owen informs him, starting to dish up.

“Telling them I said it, or your boyfriend did?” George asks, rueful at the distinction.

“We’ll see how much mischief you get up to in camp, I guess,” Owen teases. “See if I need to call you out for anything.”

George rolls his eyes. He guesses they could get away with that.

“No need for your might about camp, anyway - I was right,” Owen points out. 

George hums. “We’ll see if you’re right about sharing a room, too.”

“If we’re not it’s because you jinxed us,” Owen says promptly, settling down to eat.

George hums. “Cips along, too.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Owen says impatiently. “He hasn’t got a patch on you, when Eddie sees how unfit he is after the off season he’ll stop even having to pretend to consider him.”

“It’s not like we were exactly in full on training mode,” George points out.

Owen glares mildly. “Are you trying to have an argument?”

George sighs, sinking back into the cushions. “Seems like it,” he agrees, grimacing apologetically. “Feeling guilty about letting Kyle go out with the lads by himself.”

“I was going to ask where he was,” Owen comments. “But you’re putting him up, not adopting him - I’m sure he can handle a night by himself. He knows you, he doesn’t need you putting yourself through an evening out just for him.”

“I don’t _hate_ nights out,” George insists, deflating when Owen just fixes him with a flat look. “He did say that,” George tells Owen ruefully. “And Joe’s out for the start, so he’s got another Northerner.”

“There you are then!” Owen exclaims. “It’s important, that.”

“Kyle’s not the biggest fan of a night on the town, anyway, he might go back with Joe depending on the rest of the lads.”

“Hopefully he won’t be back too early,” Owen smiles. “Want you to myself as long as I can get you.”

George smiles back, soft. “We’ll have all evening, in just a couple of days.” He can’t see Eddie moving away from rooming them together, though he guesses they’ll see. “How did your boys react to the call up - Kpoku and Rhodes are both yours, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “Joel wasn’t expecting it at all, it was sweet. Mikey too, but he was a bit more blasé about it.”

“Sounds like Olowofela and Spencer, for us,” George compares.

“Should be interesting to get a bit of new blood in camp, shake us up a bit,” Owen says thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” George agrees. “Bit of old, too - Ashton coming back in. You reckon he’ll make the squad?”

“Don’t know that he’d come back if it didn’t look pretty sure,” Owen says. “He’s sure to get some of the media interested, anyway.”

“Yeah, it’s really going to be him they’re looking at,” George arches an eyebrow. “Hadn’t thought about them being there.”

“PR wanted to be sure I knew,” Owen pulls a face. “They’re not making me talk to them - Ashton’s taking the fall on that one - but there’ll be photos, at least.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage to make some kind of story out of that,” George says wryly.

“I’m sure,” Owen agrees. “The question is whether it’ll be immeasurably dull, or if some of the lads will notice the snappers and make it a bit more interesting.”

“Oh god,” George balks. “Don’t suggest the idea to Lenny, whatever you do - I don’t think I want to see what he’d come up with!”

Owen laughs, throwing his head back.

“Or, actually, that might be a good idea,” George muses. “Get the heat off you a bit.”

“Could be entertaining, too,” Owen grins. “I’m gonna do it.”

“Oh, I’m going to regret this,” George laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this installment! Chapter four may be posted earlier than next weekend if my work closes (I'm a lab technician, but not a key worker), though there's no sign of that currently. 
> 
> As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and [tumblr](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments. 
> 
> I hope you and yours are all safe and well both physically and mentally, and taking any breaks from this never ending news that you need <3


	4. Chapter 4

“Georgie!” 

George hears the call the instant he steps inside reception of the hotel, turns to the voice opening his arms for the hug he knows is coming - and it is, a body colliding with his before he even sees who it is. He doesn’t need to see, he knows, from the accent, the nickname.

“Hiya, love,” George murmurs, quiet, into Owen’s neck. He’s aware of his Tigers’ teammates at his back, but they’re not close enough for him to sacrifice the words.

Owen squeezes him even harder for that, before reluctantly releasing him. “Good to see you, mate,” he says, taking a step back.

“You too,” George quirks a soft grin, keeps eye contact for just a second longer before he steps back as well, tilting to the side to draw Owen’s attention to the rest of the Tigers. They’d all been driven down together, England providing transportation to save the planet - or the parking charges at the hotel, but either way. As he looks behind Owen he sees a gaggle of Saracens, guesses the same must have been done for them.

“Do I get a hug, too?” Jonny asks, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“We’d better,” Ben exclaims, going to claim his own from Owen.

Owen gives it willingly, then wraps up Jonny as well, and George hears them exchanging small talk about the off season as he goes to greet the rest of the Saracens lads. George has just about finished his rounds, thinks he and Owen might be able to escape to their room, when the Exeter squad arrive and the cycle repeats all over again.

He and Owen share a look, just enough for George to know Owen is thinking the same. It’s probably ridiculous - they’ve barely been apart seven days, but over the summer George had got used to Owen being by his side near enough every second of every day. He’s been surprised by how much he’s missed that.

Eventually everyone has arrived and Eddie turns up to chivvy them all to their rooms and drop off their bags before lunch. George eyes the keycard he’s picked up, slips out into the hallway and works his way through his teammates to Owen’s side.

“Room 57?” he checks, perfunctory.

“What?” Owen frowns down at him. “68,” he tells him.

George checks his card - no, that’s definitely his name written on the back, the number 57. And Owen’s has his name on, the number 68.

“Shit.”

“Shit,” George agrees, stopping as they reach a T junction in the corridor, numbers up to 60 in one direction, numbers below in another. “I guess I’ll see you at lunch,” he says, shrugging as he turns away.

“Yeah,” Owen grimaces, doing the same.

George would like to talk about their separation, about why Eddie’s done it - but even that would look strange. Instead he keeps walking, lets himself into his room to find Ben waiting for him.

“Fordy!” Ben lights up. “We get to share?!”

“Lucky us,” George replies, flat. He hides a smile as he dumps his bag on the bed Ben hasn’t already claimed. Ben wouldn’t have been his first choice, but he’s definitely top five. There’s no denying how annoying he can be, but without an audience to perform to he’s a surprisingly good roommate, normally fairly quiet in the evenings as he video calls his family.

George drifts on the stream of consciousness Ben provides as he unpacks what’s needed - another good thing about Ben, he’ll easily fill the silence if George doesn’t want to talk. And he doesn’t want to talk, is still distracted by his change in roommate. Eddie had seemed set on splitting him and Owen off, what had changed that? It’s still not the usual senior/junior pairing, so why the change? Who is Owen rooming with? Is the whole squad split differently to normal or just them? 

Luckily unpacking doesn’t take long and they head down for lunch, where George might be able to get at least some answers.

George spots Owen straight away, next to Dylan - is he the roommate who’s usurped George? He picks from the buffet quickly, paying Ben just enough attention to be polite, and makes a beeline straight to Owen. The leaders in the group should probably split up, but Owen and Dylan are already flouting that - George isn’t sure he’s a leader anymore, in any case, and he wants to talk to Owen.

“Hey guys,” George greets, sinking into the seat to Owen’s right.

“Hey,” Owen smiles at him, taps their feet together quickly. “You two rooming together?” he asks, nodding at Ben as he sits on George’s other side.

“For my sins,” George sighs heavily.

Owen laughs, shifts and brushes their knees together for a second. “Us too,” he gestures to Dylan. “And Jamie and Elliot are together as well - I guess the new guys are sharing with each other,” he looks at Dylan.

“I guess,” Dylan shrugs. “I don’t know either,” he admits. George thinks he knows more than he’s letting on but it’s at that moment he spots Jordan Olowofela stood at the end of the buffet, glancing around, looking lost.

“Jord,” George calls out, beckons him over when Jordan makes eye contact.

Jordan breaks into a smile, relieved, though he seems to lose confidence as he takes in who else is on George’s table. Or maybe it’s self consciousness at everyone looking at him; George hadn’t exactly been able to be quiet.

“His room mate’s not looking after him, then,” Dylan comments quietly.

Owen hums agreement, looking dissatisfied. 

“Alright?” Ben greets cheerily, gesturing Jordan into the seat next to him.

“Yeah,” Jordan smiles, small.

“Do we need to bother with introductions?” Ben asks. “I’m sure you know Dylan and Owen -”

Jordan nods, glancing at them both only quickly before dropping his eyes back down to his food.

“- and we know Jordan,” Owen interrupts. “Really great work in the under 20s this summer, mate - you were outstanding in the final, really.”

Jordan looks at Owen, properly this time, surprise seeming to overcome his nerves. “We lost,” he says, bluntly, flinching just a little when it startles a laugh out of Dylan.

“So did we,” Owen replies wryly, glancing at George. “You played well.”

“Thanks,” Jordan smiles, not quite looking like he believes him.

“Who’re you rooming with?” Dylan asks, when Jordan seems content to lapse back into silence.

“Gabe - Ibitoye,” Jordan tells him. “He went to sit with Mike Brown.”

“It must be hard, the let down of not getting to room with me,” Ben sighs, clapping Jordan on the shoulder.

“Yeah…,” Jordan allows himself to be sarcastic, George is glad to hear, though he still glances nervously at Dylan and Owen when they join George in laughing.

Lunch passes quickly, the four of them working to keep the conversation light, including Jordan without being too obvious that they’re catering to him, staying away from personal topics to help keep him from feeling left out.

Ben does bring up his wife, never seems to manage a conversation without it, and George can’t help but notice the way Jordan’s eyes dart to Owen at that. After that he spots Jordan flick another glance at Owen, then another. Jordan can’t seem to manage to look at Dylan for more than a few seconds at a time, either, doesn’t seem relaxed in either of their presence - but Owen is the one he’s glancing at when no one’s talking. George bites his lip, unsure what to make of it.

He doesn’t have much time to think on it as lunch finishes and then they’re off to the first meeting of the season.

Eddie gives a powerful opening presentation, speaking about the intention of the camp, the upcoming World Cup and the potential of every player at this camp - and a few more besides - to make their way into that sacred squad. With those words ringing loud in his ears George can barely think of anything else in the brief break to collect their kit bags before their first training session, only just remembers to mention off hand to Ben how awkward it might be for Owen if the cameras focus solely on him. 

Ben claps him on the shoulder, looking intent, and sets off to the training pitch without even a word. When George gets down there he finds Ben has managed to rope Jamie and Elliot into some daft display in front of the cameras before training begins, and he smiles at the three of them. Ben’s a good friend, Jamie and Elliot too. 

Then the session begins, and there’s no time for anything else. They start on the pitch, and George focuses on each drill with every fibre of his being, trying to show every inch of skill and display every drop of potential that any coach has ever said he’s had. After that it’s gym work, and George drills himself in rigid form, hoping to get across just how much he’d worked over the off season - not that much, not enough _why_ hadn’t he and Owen worked harder, George _needs_ to. He’s exhausted at the end of the session, can only hope he’s done enough to start his season off in a better light than the last one had ended.

George is contemplating napping on the changing room bench when Owen comes his way after they’re all showered and at least half dressed.

“Dylan’s having a meeting with Eddie before dinner, come back to mine - if you can?” Owen says, low.

“68?” George checks, gets a nod in return. “I’ll ditch my bag,” he says, seeing Ben too preoccupied with chatting to be anywhere near ready. “See you in five.”

~

“Finally,” Owen says when the door falls shut behind George, crowding him up against it and getting his fingers in George’s wet hair.

“Oh, was that a long five minutes?” George teases, leaning his head back against the door when Owen leans in. “Did you miss me from training?”

“As if you were paying attention to anything other than the exercises in training,” Owen scoffs, leaning back to give George more space but not dropping the hand cradling the back of his head, the other slipping under his shirt to rest on bare skin at his hip.

“As if you were!” George rebutts, refusing to take any teasing from Owen on that front. And he’s had enough of his own teasing, too, rises up to connect their lips and then sinks back against the door. Owen moves with him, pressing the lengths of their bodies together. 

George sighs, when they part. 

He’d missed that, missed the way Owen kisses, like it’s the centre of his world. 

It’s something they’d lost, a little, after their holiday, the two of them getting wrapped up in family routines and not taking as much time for themselves. George draws Owen in again, as he opens his mouth to speak. He’s not done yet. This time George makes sure to let his hands roam, take a full inventory of Owen’s torso, scratch his nails gently at Owen’s shoulders. A noise punches out of Owen at that, and George lets it part them.

“That’ll do,” Owen tells him.

George surveys him lazily, the slight flush to his skin, the mess he’s made of Owen’s hair. He doubts he looks much better himself. “That’ll do,” he agrees, with a nod, pushing off the door.

“Dylan’s meeting won’t last forever,” Owen says, reluctantly, following George to sit on his bed - his kit strewn over it a sure clue.

“Are you saying we can’t cuddle?” George says - dismay exaggerated, certainly, but not entirely faked.

Owen grimaces, answer enough. “I think it is meant to be through to tea, but.”

George contents himself with shifting closer to Owen, letting his knee rest on Owen’s thigh.

“You’ve got Dylan, then?” he prompts.

“Yeah - what’d you do to deserve Ben?” Owen asks, dropping a hand on George’s knee.

George shakes his head, sighs mournfully. “I wish I knew. Nah, he’s alright,” he admits, smiling as Owen laughs.

“I really didn’t think Eddie would change,” Owen muses. “I thought he was settled into splitting us off.”

“Me too,” George shrugs. “Maybe Lenny and Dyls have come out to him too?”

“I’ll check, shall I?” Owen laughs - the first true smile George has seen out of him since he’d arrived at the hotel. “’Dylan, have you recently told Eddie you’re bisexual, by any chance? Only I can’t think of any other reason we’d be roomed together?’”

George laughs. “Oh, yeah, you’re only the two most important players in our squad, captain and - you. It’s a real mystery.”

Owen just shrugs. “Hey - did you put Ben up to that, in training?” he changes the subject. “Messing around for the cameras?”

“What?” George asks. “Oh - yeah,” he grins a little. “Knew you didn’t get the chance at lunch. I didn’t ask, exactly, just pointed out that you might not be comfortable with all the photos from the weekend being of you. I didn’t say anything to Jamie and Elliot, haven’t even seen them - he must have hunted them down himself.”

Owen regards George for a second. “I saw you in that meeting, I saw the pages of notes you took -” George rolls his eyes at the teasing, fond on both sides “- I’m amazed you were thinking of anything else.”

George just shrugs. “Well, yeah. Of course,“ is all he can say. Of course he’d remembered. It’s Owen.

Owen smiles at him, slow. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” George tells him. He’d remembered their earlier conversation and done something about it - they’re not even sure it’s going to work yet, so he’s not sure why Owen is quite so impressed. 

The door clicks open at that moment, cutting off whatever Owen had been about to say. George freezes as Owen rips his hand off George’s knee, makes a conscious effort not to move away once Dylan has seen them - they’re just talking, they talk all the time. So what if they’re touching, they touch all the time, they’re rugby players.

“Oh, hey Fordy,” Dylan greets. He seems surprised to see George in his room, but not shocked. “How’ve you been?” he walks over to clasp George’s hand and George stands into the hug, sits back down a touch further from Owen, no longer touching.

George flicks Owen a regretful look as he returns the pleasantries, catches up on the topics they’d not broached at lunch - he’s happy to hear about Dylan’s family, the plans he’d been working on over the summer to renovate an old farmhouse. But he’d rather be alone with Owen, hear more about how Saracens have been treating him, how the media might treat him, what his family have been up to over the last few days. Still, George reminds himself, in only one afternoon at camp they’ve had lunch together and found time to be alone, without the luck of sharing a room. It could certainly be worse.

~

George heads down to dinner with Owen and Dylan, Dylan peeling off upon spotting a table mostly full of new squad members. George slides Owen a grin at that - time to themselves! But they’ve barely sat down before Jamie and Elliot join them, all smiles and energy. George is glad to see Jamie and Elliot, he reminds himself as he forces a smile in return, glad to hear what they’ve been up to on their off seasons - but it’s nothing like time alone with Owen. 

It’s not even like being together in front of either of their families - there they could touch freely, for all George’s parents had seemed surprised by their tactility at first. They’d been able to kiss, if they wanted to, sit with their legs entangled all evening. In front of Jamie and Elliot, in a room full of England players, George can’t even steal food off Owen’s plate - or perhaps he could, but it’s South Africa all over again; he’s forgotten what they had deemed appropriate, what they’d got away with. 

But again, George reminds himself that it could be worse. As they bid goodbye to Jamie and head to their backs meeting, George knows it could be so much worse. They were lucky, in South Africa, had never expected to get that much time to themselves - clearly it was a step too far to expect it again. They can still spend time in each other’s company, are known to be close enough for that to be expected, and can easily get away with a certain level of touching given the rugby environment. They’re not separated by camp, won’t be seperated by the international window the way so many couples George knows are - it could be worse.

They take seats next to each other inside the meeting room, Owen crossing his legs and letting his foot brush against George’s calf. George would like to look at Owen and share a smile of acknowledgement, but he settles for slouching in his chair, shifting to strengthen the contact.

The meeting isn’t due to start for another five minutes, and Elliot has wandered off to chat with Dan Robson - they’re in the middle of a room of England players, but they’re alone.

“Are your family getting settled back in Ireland okay?” George asks quietly.

Owen glances at George then quickly scans their surroundings, uncrossing his legs and shifting low to mirror George’s slouch. George mourns the end of their loose point of contact as much as he appreciates the sense of privacy. “Yeah, thanks,” Owen tells him. “Gabe’s not too happy Elle and Gracie have stayed behind, been calling them as much as he called - me, when I went back home,” Owen stumbles over the lie - Gabe had called _them_ , the both of them, when they’d left the Farrells to visit the Fords - he’d really taken to George, to his bafflement and Owen’s delight. “But he’s pretty happy whenever he sees his friends, so they still think it was the right thing to do.”

George nods understanding. “And are _you_ settling in back at Sarries alright?”

“Yes, mum,” Owen rolls his eyes, sighs when George just gives him a look. “Yeah,” he replies, more seriously. “It’s - there’s a bit of ribbing, but all well intentioned. Those with a problem don’t say anything,” he adds wryly - George grimaces. “But PR told me - couple of days ago, don’t think I mentioned it - that they banned media from practice sessions before I even came back to preseason, so they didn’t even get a _chance_ to be a pain.”

“Sounds like Sarries’ve been great,” George smiles, not for the first time.

“Yeah,” Owen shakes his head, baffled. “How’re you getting on back at Tigers, anyway? Kyle behaving himself, not throwing a house party while you’re away?”

“No, he’s getting some more of his stuff today, looking for somewhere to rent tomorrow,” George tells Owen. “It’s - nowhere near as much hard work as this,” he says carefully. Of course it shouldn’t be, but the difference in how the coaches had worked them this afternoon had been stark. George doesn’t want to suggest criticism of his head coach, especially not to an opponent - but he’s worried, and it’s Owen.

Owen’s frown shows he knows just how serious it must be for George to be saying even that, to him. “Yeah?” he prompts, leaning in closer as the coaches and analysts file in. “What -”

“Is that a ring?!” Elliot says loudly, drowning Owen out, from where - where he’s settled on the other side of Owen, how had George _missed_ that. Owen had too, judging by the surprise on his face as he turns to find Elliot holding the wrist of Aaron, one of the analysts.

“Yeah,” Aaron admits, glancing around and seeming to droop in relief when he realises that Elliot has only caught the attention of a few guys - Owen and George, and Jonny behind them. 

“A wedding ring?” Owen picks up, though the answer is self evident.

Aaron looks at Owen, and blushes. “Yeah,” he fiddles with the ring.

George cocks his head in interest.

“Did you get married and not tell us?” Elliot demands. “We’d’ve come to the wedding, you’ve denied us a party, come on man!”

“It was -” Aaron clears his throat, looks at Owen, straightens his shoulders. 

And now George is _really_ intrigued. Unless Owen has got married in the few days they’ve been apart, if George is reading this right - 

“Got married a few years ago, actually, as soon as it was legal. But my husband didn’t want me wearing the ring to work here, and I - yeah, I guess I wasn’t sure either. I can be, now,” he adds, looking Owen straight in the eye.

George follows Aaron’s gaze as Elliot puts on some joking performance of being hurt at the exclusion from Aaron’s life - he definitely doesn’t want to listen too closely to criticisms like that, joking or not, and Owen’s reaction is far more interesting anyway.

Owen is blinking at Aaron, gaze flicking from his face to the ring Aaron’s still fidgeting with as he too ignores Elliot.

“Thank you,” Aaron says, sincere, when Owen fails to come up with words.

George hears Owen’s breath catch at that, drops a hand to his knee without thinking. Aaron’s eyes follow it, and George regrets it instantly - but letting go won’t help the situation now. So he squeezes, hears Owen take a deep, steadier breath, and the regret fades. He still lets go, when Owen speaks.

“I - thank _you_ ,” Owen manages. “You’re -” he gestures widely. “That really - it’s big of you to do that, you know?”

“I guess,” Aaron says, though he’s blushing slightly as he shrugs. “Anyway, I better -” he gestures towards the front of the room, where the rest of the staff look pretty much set up.

“Yeah, go tell us what to do,” George jokes, to distract from Owen’s continued state of shock.

Aaron departs with an awkward wave, Elliot being dragged in to gossipping with Jonny.

Owen leans into George, shifts so their knees brush. George glances at Owen but he’s staring fixedly forward - getting a hold of himself, if George were to guess. George straightens out of his slouch, settling with his knee resting against Owen’s. It’s not much, but it’s something, something to ground Owen. And from the brief pulse of pressure in return, Owen appreciates it.

The meeting starts and it all fades away but for that one point of contact, the glint of gold at the front of the room.

~

Owen stays after the meeting to talk to Aaron - George considers lingering in the hall, waiting for Owen to come out, but Ben’s dragging him away before he can decide what Aaron might make of that. 

And with that, what seems to be the last opportunity for the two of them to speak privately comes and goes. George doesn’t know what he would have done, if he’d known that might be the last time the two of them could talk alone - or at all, really. By the time Owen gets to the lounge that evening there are no seats left near George, and the next morning Cipriani has settled himself by Owen, something George decides he simply can’t deal with so early in the day. That lunchtime Elliot calls Haskell over to his and George’s table, and George understands Owen’s avoidance entirely - they manage to share dinner again, albeit on the largest table in the room, but are separated immediately afterwards as Owen is called to join Dylan’s meeting with Eddie.

An invitation like that would be a cause for celebration in any other situation, but Dylan’s captain’s meetings had been the one opportunity they’d had for proper privacy. Of course George congratulates Owen, in a text, on reaching heights in the squad they hadn’t even been aware existed. Owen’s not become permanent captain, as far as either of them are aware, hasn’t usurped Dylan, but he’s still privy to those meetings, those captain’s discussions, when no one else is. It’s a feat, something to be proud of, carving out a space in the system that hadn’t previously existed - but they’d imagined they’d have evenings for themselves, even after learning of their new roomshare situation, they’d thought they would find time for each other - and they haven’t. No matter why, it’s frustrating. 

It doesn’t help that Jordan isn’t the only new face in camp who can’t seem to stop glancing at Owen, putting them on edge the one remaining meal they do share. Jordan is seated near them through that dinner, and that’s long enough for George to ascertain that his interest is hero worship more than anything. There’s a degree of that with the other new faces - Saracens exempted - but it tends towards curiosity in them. George isn’t sure what they expect Owen to do, if they want him to suddenly produce a boyfriend to kiss or burst into a speech about equal rights, but they’re certainly curious about him. It’s not limited to Owen, Ibitoye spending an evening listening devotedly to Jonny - George can only imagine what he hears - and Stooke seeming to find himself in Maro’s presence a disproportionate amount, but Owen is one they all share.

It’s a good camp, in other ways, so many new players and the focus on the World Cup bringing a real sense of excitement and anticipation to the group. But George exchanges more frustrated looks with Owen than he does anything else, and he can’t deny the disappointment that sinks in his chest when he climbs into the taxi back to Leicester without so much as a second hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that chapter! Sadly it does not look like I'm getting out of going in to work unless the country shuts down to all bar key workers, so updates will stay at every weekend. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs. (And if you already follow me on those and think you know where the name 'Aaron' came from - yes, yes, you are right. I hate naming characters, and I thought 'why not?')
> 
> I am currently taking prompts on my rugby tumblr, from [two](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/613822493283713024/witterprompts-this-doesnt-really-affect-me-at) [sets](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/613823035690123264/rpmemesstash-different-ways-to-say-i-love) I've reblogged, or anything else you might have - no promises on length, so if you've got a big long idea save it for yourself! If anyone's bored enough to be curious I did also reblog a set of [fic asks](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/613821947620573184/reblog-if-you-are-a-fanfiction-author-and-would), and again would welcome any other questions you might have.
> 
> I'd love to hear from you guys in any of those places, or in comments - hoping you're all safe and well, and will stay that way!


	5. Chapter 5

George knows, intellectually, that he’s had a good night’s sleep, a full 20 hours break, between leaving an England meeting room and entering a Tigers one, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it. 

Still, George smiles at Matt O’Connor as he enters the room and takes a seat.

“Alright?” he greets.

Matt just nods. “We might as well get down to business -” George looks around, and yes, he is the only one in the large meeting room. At least that’s a difference to every other meeting he’s attended over the past few days, he supposes - they’ve all included upwards of 10 people, not two.

“The rest of the coaches and some more senior players will be here in about 20 minutes,” Matt goes on, “But I wanted a couple of minutes with you first - this is about the email sent out by England, in the wake of Owen Farrell’s coming out.”

“Oh,” George says, understanding.

“We’ll be having a full squad meeting tomorrow to go over the info in that email, but before we did I wanted to make sure everyone in the senior team was on the same page, and in a position to give support if necessary.” Matt says.

George nods, biting his lip.

“Are you okay with being one of the senior players named as support for any players who might want it?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” George nods. “Tom already sent a message in the players group chat, after Owen came out, naming me - it’d look weird if it changed now, honestly.”

Matt nods. “And are you planning on coming out to the squad this season?” he asks.

George bites the other side of his lip. “Same as last season?” he offers. “I’m not, not actively. But I might - I’m not really sure, I might mention my partner a bit, and I don’t think all the lads would stay ignorant _if_ I did. I’m definitely not going to do anything direct, anyway,” he says.

“Good,” Matt nods. George only has a second to wonder what exactly Matt means by that - it was just acknowledgement, surely? - before he’s moving on to his next question. “Regardless of your intentions with the squad, I wondered if you might like more of the staff to know? It would be easier if we could talk freely in the upcoming meeting - we’ll be chatting about ways to support players who might come forward, so it’d be good if we could make sure you get a good amount of input.”

George balks. Tell more of the staff, the senior players? Mat Tait, he’s sure, is included in that. Boris Stankovich too, who’s a jolly enough bloke, but George is big enough to admit that he’s scared of him half the time.

“No,” George chokes out. “No, I don’t - I’ll contribute, yeah, like I normally would. And I appreciate that you want to listen to what I have to say, but I - no, I don’t want to tell a bunch of people outright.”

Matt O’Connor nods, though George can’t help but notice the unhappy twist to his mouth. He wishes he hadn’t. “The rest of the senior team think the meeting’s from 10, so we’ve got another 15 minutes if you had anything to say, or if you want to leave or come back. I thought you’re well known for being early, it wouldn’t be surprising - should have thought that meant you’d be early for the time I told you, too!” Matt laughs.

George laughs along, but his head is still spinning. Matt’s right, he is known for being early, and he doesn’t want to get caught leaving the room, that’d look even stranger. Instead he sits, talks to Matt about his offseason, asks some clarifying questions on the way he wants Tigers to play in the upcoming season.

They’re deep in minutiae when Ben and Tom show up.

“Ugh,” Ben scoffs. “It’s not even 10am, can we save the detail for later?” he asks.

“That’s not the topic of this meeting, you’re safe,” George tells him wryly.

“You got advanced info, Fordy?” Tom asks. “I don’t know what this meeting is about.”

“Did you forward the email when you got it?” George asks Matt, who shakes his head.

“I’ll show it, here and to the whole squad, but I haven’t yet, no.”

George shrugs acknowledgement. “You know Verity said she was going to send that email, Ben? After Owen told the lads he was going to come out?” he prompts.

“Oh, yeah!” Ben remembers after a long moment.

“Was that - something about the terms of contract around homophobia?” Tom’s frowning intently - George is frankly surprised he knows about it at all.

Half of the coaches arrive at this point so George just nods at Tom before turning to pleasantries - no need to go over the whole thing before Matt does.

George sits quiet through Matt’s initial presentation, reading the email closely when Matt hands copies around. It’s everything Verity had promised, essentially - a stern warning with regards to the conduct of players, on the pitch, in training and via any social media - George can’t help but think that the warning is coming a bit late, for the social media - followed by a list of information about support services. George is surprised but glad to read about a support service specifically for academy and junior players. He supposes the junior one had become a necessity when he and Owen had suggested that the support be offered to grassroots clubs, but he hadn’t considered the difference between academy players and senior teams, and it’s one he’s glad to see recognised.

“You’re all here,” Matt tells them, “Because I’d like to name you as senior figures in the club that any players with questions, or who needs support, can turn to. I’ll be forwarding this email, with the links - I imagine lads would rather to take those up, but if some guys want to talk to people they already know I’d like to ask you to be those people. I’m not expecting you all to turn into counsellors overnight - please do read through the email and Stonewall’s support page yourselves, if you’re happy to do this, but the best thing you can do might well be to direct players back to these links. By virtue of your position in the club you all already have some responsibility - I’d like to ask you to consider this within your remit.”

Tom coughs. “I, er, might have already named a few of you,” he admits.

Matt laughs. “Fordy did mention that!”

George tenses, the smile from Tom’s sheepish admission frozen on his face. When Tom turns to him, concern in his eyes, George shakes his head minutely - he hadn’t been complaining. He can see how Tom would have made the assumption, doesn’t know what conclusions the other people in the room might be coming to about what conversation he and Matt had had.

“Anyway,” Tom goes on loudly. “After Faz came out there was a bit -” he just grimaces “- it wasn’t too bad, on the players’ group chat, but it was getting there. I think it was Lenny, Fordy, Deacs, and Geordie that I already named - Matt too, of course. So I hope you’re okay with that, boys!”

There’s a round of chuckling, no objections.

“If anyone would like to be kept out for personal reasons but doesn’t wish to say so now they can come to me afterwards,” Matt says. “But for now, I’d like to get us all on the same page - what do we think people might come to us with, what issues do we think we might get?”

George glances around the room. He’s not sure how telling Matt afterwards is going to save face when everyone here knows who’s in the meeting, but he supposes the intent is good.

Aside from a couple of coaches who don’t seem to believe in the possibility of any player on the team, either now or in the future, actually being queer, the meeting goes well. George makes a few suggestions - mostly cutting down people who seem to think that approaching a player they suspect might be queer is the way to go - but largely finds himself content to sit quiet and let Tom handle things. Many of the other players seem to be doing the same, with Tom luckily seeming well prepared for it. George wonders if Tom has been reading up, since George came out to him, since Owen came out to everyone, foreseeing the possibility of more players approaching him. 

“There is the issue of clashing religious beliefs,” Matt raises.

George snaps his head up.

“We want to be careful not to suggest to our more religious players that they can’t express their religion, at least within the club environment -”

“- except for how it would be massively damaging to everything else we’ve just said if they did,” George says loudly, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to.

Matt stops, looking at George with simple curiosity.

George takes a breath. He thought he’d gotten away without this, without having to say too much.

“Look,” Ben steps in - George tears his gaze from Matt, eyes wide. “There’s no point us standing up and saying that players can come to us, should feel safe coming out if they’re gay, or bi, or whatever - and then saying that anyone who holds homophobic views should feel free to express them. It won’t work. How could any player feel safe if we say that people should still be able to tell them they’ll burn in hell?”

Tom is frowning thoughtfully.

“I don’t know that any of our players would necessarily say anything so extreme,” Matt says, tone critical.

“It feels the same,” George cuts in, reckless with his words and not caring. He _could_ have said nothing, Ben had said enough that he had that option - but he wants to. “Saying it’s a sin, immoral, that people should just keep it quiet - it’s all just degrees, it’s not actually _different_. It’s homophobia, and it cuts the same whatever the source.”

Matt looks like he might object to that, but it’s Geordie who speaks next.

“And if we did, what - tell players they can be as homophobic as they like - so long as they source it from the Bible, so long as it’s only on club grounds? It’s never going to stay contained,” Geordie shakes his head. “Telling players they can do something, but only on club grounds, is never going to work.”

“What if players do feel their religion is being disrespected, and say something?” Tom asks. “I don’t want players to feel like that - I know what you’re saying, I agree with all of you -” he looks to George, to Ben and Geordie “- but how would we respond if they say something in the meeting?”

George keeps his mouth shut on this one, despite the words clawing at his chest, fairly sure his solutions wouldn’t be popular.

“We don’t even know that anyone in the team does think homosexuality is wrong, never mind from a religious angle,” Harry Wells points out sensibly. 

George keeps his mouth shut again, doesn’t suggest his mental list of players who most regularly use slurs, which doesn’t correlate with strength of religion as far as he can tell. 

“We’re borrowing trouble,” Ben nods agreement. “And either way, whatever they think, religious or not - people’s beliefs don’t have to extend to impacting everyone else’s life. No one is policing their beliefs, just their behaviour. “

“And it’s a code of conduct they’ve already signed up to,” Geordie adds.

Tom still looks uncomfortable, but he nods.

“Perhaps we could make the first meeting, at least, a safe space for everyone,” Matt says, something he clearly thinks is a compromise. “Allow any view to be expressed while we set out the code of conduct for the future, and perhaps see if any reasonable objections are made or middle ground can be found.”

George glances around and finds a reasonable handful of people frowning, but no one seems about to speak. He lets himself, lets the words spill out. “Look, that’s not how a safe space works,” he says frankly. “If you open with something like that no queer player is going to feel safe, full stop. If we want to actually enforce the terms of this email, not just send out the support links - and those are great, don’t get me wrong,” he adds hastily. “But if we want to tell any queer players we have that they won’t be discriminated against here, won’t have to put up with the homophobia they see everywhere else, and we want to _mean_ it, we can’t also give other people the space to - to condemn them to hell -” George uses Ben’s example, not really wanting to make it about religion but unable to find words “- or tell them they should keep their mouths shut about basics of their lives, or whatever you’re expecting to hear.”

“You can’t have a balanced conversation where one side’s position is that there’s something fundamentally wrong with the other, and all the other side want is to not have to hear that everywhere they go,” Dan Cole says practically. 

George twists around, surprised, and returns the serious nod Dan gives him almost on autopilot. He knows Dan hasn’t had an issue with Owen, had been one of the more tolerant members of the group, and he knows he’s smart, but he hadn’t expected such a succinct summary.

Matt O’Connor is still frowning at the front. “I’m glad we’ve had this meeting,” is all he says. “It’s time for training now, so get ready to work hard!” His frown cracks into a grin.

George can’t imagine that any work he has ever or will ever put in on the field could be harder than that, but he laughs along with everyone else, stands and slips out of the room quickly so he doesn’t have to live through the meeting again on the way to training. He hopes he got through, hopes Dan did - he supposes they’ll see.

~

The next day seems to come far too quickly, the next meeting dawning not even 24 hours after the first. George chews his lip as he walks into the Tigers main meeting room, takes a seat in the front row. He nods to Tom, to Greg next to him, smiles at Matt O’Connor. He knows what’s coming, but that doesn’t actually make it any less intimidating. He wishes he’d been able to talk to Owen, last night, to vent some of his nerves if nothing else. But Kyle had been especially talkative, and Owen had taken an early night, so George had received nothing more than a heart emoji in sympathy for his rough day and the offer of a listening ear that he hadn’t been able to take up.

Matt greets them with the usual spiel, talking up the club, thanking them for their hard preseason work. George thinks a lot of the squad expect the meeting to be about the weekend’s preseason match, and he’s sure they’ll get to that. But Matt brings up the email, first.

“Now I don’t know if all of you can read that at the back,” Matt says, causing some lads to peer dramatically at the tiny text, to the general amusement. Matt chuckles and lets the noise die down before going on. “This is an email from the RFU, sent over the off season, that reminds players of the terms of their contracts. Specifically, the terms referring to discriminatory and homophobic behaviour.”

That settles down the last of the giggles.

“Discriminatory behaviour is a high level code of conduct breach. In simple terms, that means you can get fired for it. We’re playing Saracens in the international window this year so this is unlikely to apply directly to Farrell but it _does_ apply to every single other member of the Premiership, and every single member of this team. We’re also playing Saracens on day of the Rainbow Laces event, so I expect every one of you to treat the occasion with as much respect as you do every year.

“Now that was a simple reminder, of terms you’ve already agreed to,” Matt goes on, lifting his tone. “It’s the second half of the email that I really wanted to focus on. Don’t worry, I will be forwarding the relevant sections on immediately after this meeting - I’m not expecting most of you to be able to read this, never mind memorise it. 

“After Owen Farrell’s public coming out the RFU thought that there may be an uptick in other players coming out, if not necessarily to the public then within their squads, and have provided resources to help coaches best support them, which I’m happy to tell you I have already used.”

George wonders if Matt hadn’t talked to Stonewall yesterday afternoon, if that isn’t why he didn’t start the meeting with the offer of a safe space for homophobia the way he’d seemed eager to, and misses most of Matt’s explanation of the services trying to decide whether or not he should regret the thought.

“In addition to these resources we want it to be clear that players can come to us, personally,” Matt is saying when George tunes back in, taking a moment to let that sit. “If anyone is in such a situation and feels more comfortable going to these resources, then they shoudl absolutely feel free to do so - that’s what they’re there for! But any of the medical staff are well equipped and willing to speak with you, as are the coaching staff. On top of this - if perhaps you find us intimidating, for some reason -” there’s a ripple of laughter “- Tom Youngs, Ben Youngs, Harry Wells, George Ford, Mat Tait, and Dan Cole are happy for you to approach them about any issues you want to raise surrounding the topic, or anything you might want to disclose.”

George turns around, following the others’ lead, and smiles at his squad. He makes sure to keep his face relaxed, not allow any of the tension he feels at the discussion of the subject come through. He knows he would have spotted it, if he were a closeted player hearing those words. So instead he smiles, makes eye contact with as many players as he can - only quickly, not enough to make anyone feel singled out - and turns around only after everyone else has. It’s all he can do. 

Apart from come out, a voice in his head pipes up. He could do that.

“All interactions would of course be completely confidential, and can be set up in as formal or informal a manner as you may like - pull us aside for a quick chat, email to set up a meeting, academy players could tack it on to a development session, absolutely anything.

“We want it to be clear that there is a place for everyone in our squad, regardless of sexuality,” Matt underlines. “Whoever you may be attracted to, if you’re in this room you’re a Tiger - you’re one of us.” 

Tom starts to applaud at that - George wonders if they’d planned it - a move taken up in moments by what seems like the entire squad. George puts his own hands together, feeling dazed. After the way things had yesterday he hadn’t dared hope for much from this meeting, but he doesn’t think he could ever have imagined this. 

_Whoever you may be attracted to, if you’re in this room you’re a Tiger - you’re one of us_. George could never have imagined that message back when he was in the academy and still a little scared of himself, isn’t sure he could imagine it now if he hadn’t just heard it. He’d grown up surrounded by players and coaches using homophobic slurs and implications to put down and set apart players they thought weren’t working hard enough, thought weren’t good enough. He’d been at the Tigers academy, in England juniors, during the period of time where everything was ‘gay’ - embarrassing, bad, inferior. And he’d known, for a decade, that these people were talking about him. 

Now he’s got the head coach of his job, at the team where he’d decided it would be for the best if he never let anyone know, never let himself date a boy, telling him he belongs. The culture has always told him differently, and George isn’t fool enough to think that will change over night, but the head of his club telling him, telling everyone, that sexuality should not set you apart from you team - it’s more of a change than George could ever have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and [tumblr](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) \- where I took prompts, last week, and ended up writing 31 rugby fic snippets, with a couple more potentially still to come. I will be posting some of those on ao3 over the next week, so apologies in advance for the email notifications! I'd love to hear from you in comments or anywhere, and I hope everyone is safe and well <3


	6. Chapter 6

“Wasn’t expecting that this morning,” Kyle says after the meeting, jogging a few steps to catch up as George hurries away from the room. George slows, lets Greg, Joe and Jonny fall into step as well - he’s caught now, there’s no escaping the discussion from here.

“They told us in South Africa that there was going to be an email out,” Jonny shrugs. “It makes sense, I guess.”

“I guess,” Kyle sounds sceptical. “I mean, it’s all good stuff, don’t get me wrong, but - I doubt it’s really relevant, you know? Like how many gay guys are there in professional rugby, actually? Maybe for the kids it’s good, younger guys,” he muses.

“I don’t know, I think you’d be surprised,” Joe says. “There were a few guys out, or near enough, down in the Championship - the Prem isn’t so far away that it’s impossible, you know?”

George just ducks his head. He might have to listen to the conversation, might not have been able to avoid that, but there’s no rule that says he has to participate.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Kyle agrees, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Don’t think there was any at Wasps, though - like who, d’you think Hask is hiding that he’s gay?” Kyle laughs. “There’s so much chat about dating, whatever - I just think you’d know,” he shrugs, as if it’s self evident.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t believe I’ve got a secret boyfriend, Eastmond?” Greg bluffs.

George can’t help his flinch, knows Jonny and Joe both caught it as they look at him and then immediately away. George smooths out his expression, tries to lower his shoulders. He’s sure from Greg’s perspective he’s helping - maybe he’s trying to feel Kyle out on the subject, see how he’d react to the possibility.

Kyle laughs, as if the idea is ridiculous, the way Greg grins back not exactly discouraging him.

“Nah mate, I’ve been here a week and I’ve already heard you talk about girls in a way that means I’d never believe that,” Kyle continues the joke.

That’s what it is, to both of them. Even with Greg knowing it seems to be a joke, a farce, an idea too wild to be believed.

George could change that, right now, if he wanted to. He could show them just how serious, just how real, what they’re joking about is. It seems as if Greg needs a reminder, after all.

“Bisexuality does exist,” Jonny says.

And Jonny’s voice sounds tense - it’s not a joke to him, he’s not amused by what Greg is doing. Neither is Joe, George sees, at a quick glance over. 

“I guess,” Kyle shrugs. “But somehow I don’t think Bates is hiding a boyfriend, not from the wife and kids.”

“Sadly you’re right,” Greg sighs. “No guy would have me.”

They laugh again, seeming not to notice that they’re the only ones.

“Alright lads,” George says, swallows. He’s not sure he should have done that, but they’re looking at him now, he needs to follow up. He needs to say something.

“That’ll do, yeah?” It’s Joe who steps in. “Faz shows you never really know, right? That could be any of the lads that play here you’re mocking, you know?”

“Not mocking!” Greg protests, looking at George wide-eyed.

“Any of the coaches, whatever,” George manages, looking away from Greg to Kyle. “I’m sure they hear enough indirect homophobia as it is,” he shrugs, reaching for the door of the training centre and gesturing the others through first. “We’ve got to work on that, not start laughing about it straight up.”

“Didn’t mean to mock anyone,” Kyle says, more seriously than Greg, less defensive. “Just don’t think it’s that likely is all - maybe coaches, though,” he muses. “You don’t really know some of them.”

George sighs in relief as Kyle walks out of his range of hearing, smiling at Jordan Olowofela as he’s the last guy to file through the door - George hadn’t known he was so close behind them, truth be told. 

Jordan drops George’s gaze immediately, and George frowns, distracted from the worries of a moment before. They really need to make that kid feel more at home.

~

Come the evening George is exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse into Owen’s arms and lay there for long minutes. George can’t have that, knows he can’t have that, but he can at least see Owen. He knows it’s impolite to abandon Kyle so he makes himself wait half an hour after their meal before he shoots up, retreating upstairs with some excuse about reading that he sorely hopes Kyle won’t follow up on. Owen’s awake, and free, George knows from texting while he had been cooking. They’ve gone over Owen’s day - nothing special, just a video from his family of Walter pulling Gabe’s arm near enough out of its socket on a walk - and George had put off Owen’s own enquiries with a simple ‘ _later_ ’. He hopes he hasn’t worried Owen, but he couldn’t start talking about it, knew he would never stop.

George gets ready for bed in record time, doubting he’s going to want to leave once he’s started talking to Owen. He realises, as he flings himself onto the bed, that Kyle will probably be able to hear him talking downstairs. He’ll have to pretend Jacob called, or his mum, he dismisses, as quick as he’d thought it.

Then he’s finding Owen’s contact, hitting call, relaxing back into his pillows as Owen’s face fills his screen.

“Hi,” George says, on an exhale.

“What’s up?” Owen asks immediately, frowning.

“Oh, not - nothing bad,” George dismisses. “I just - needed to talk about it.”

“Whatever you need,” Owen tells him, expression intense.

George smiles, aches with how much he wants to reach out and cup Owen’s face - so close, yet 70 miles away. “We had that meeting, about the email from the RFU,” he tells Owen, gratified by how Owen immediately grimaces. “It was good,” George reflects, settling back into the pillows. “O’Connor was - great, honestly, making it clear queer players should feel able to reach out, should feel as much part of the team as anyone. That was -” George shakes his head. “I didn’t expect him to say that. And Tom started a round of applause after that, I didn’t exactly look but it _sounded_ like everyone joined in - it was amazing.”

“Yeah? I’m so glad to hear that, Georgie,” Owen says gently. “How were the lads?”

George grimaces. “There was chat, afterwards, you know how it is after a full squad meeting -” 

Owen grunts acknowledgement.

“- but nothing too bad, not as bad as it could have been. Kyle was - kind of joking, saying how no one really needs it. Bates didn’t help with that.”

Owen is frowning pretty fiercely, so George hurries on.

“I think Bates was trying to sound him out, maybe - asked if Kyle wouldn’t believe he had a secret boyfriend.”

Owen’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah,” George agrees. “But it was joke, he said it as a joke, so of course Kyle took it as one.”

“It’s not a joke,” Owen says, serious.

“No, love. You’re not a joke,” George says gently, heart aching. Having to hide his relationship isn’t a joke, full stop, isn’t something he’s ever found enjoyable or entertaining. 

But Owen? What Owen is to him, what they are to each other? That’s not something he could ever dismiss. It’s real, one of the most solid things in his life, not something that can be laughed off the way Greg had tried.

“Jonny wasn’t impressed, to be fair,” George goes on. “Nor Joe. I’m sure Greg had good intentions, if he really thought about it at all, but -” George shakes his head. “That was first thing, then there was just chat about it pretty much all day - nothing else like that, no laughing at it or anything. Just - chat, discussions. It was all pretty good really, but -”

“Tiring, I know,” Owen nods, eyes soft.

George swallows. “You get it.”

Owen laughs gently. “Yeah, babe. I get it.”

George takes a moment just to look at Owen, his open expression, the care written in every line of his face. “Wish you were here,” he manages.

“Me too,” Owen tells him.

It’s the first time they’ve spoken face to face since Lensbury, since the frustration of that missed opportunity, those few snatched moments.

George swallows. “Anyway, that was today,” he shrugs, shifting, trying to think of anything other than Owen’s body pressed solid against his those few short days ago, how much he longs to feel that warmth again.

Owen hums acknowledgement. “Now come on, what’s the rest of it,” he prompts after a moment.

George doesn’t know how Owen knew there was more, had almost decided not to go over this with him. “We had a meeting yesterday, too,” George figures it’s best to start at the beginning. “Senior players and coaching staff, Matt checking he could tell the lads they could come to us if they wanted to -”

“You’re doing that? That’s great, Georgie!”

George scoffs. “As if anyone would come to a teammate when they could go to an actual, qualified, _anonymous_ , support service. But he called me in early, before everyone else, to give me a bit of a heads up, ask personally if I was okay to do it. And - he asked if I wanted to come out, in that senior staff meeting. Make sure they’d listen to me, make it easier to talk about everything.”

“Did you?” Owen asks.

George shakes his head. “I didn’t even say much,” he admits, biting his lip against the flush of shame. “Ben and Tom were great, I let them take the lead.”

“Well that’s brilliant,” Owen encourages. “I’m glad they’re doing that, glad they’re taking it seriously!”

George smiles, small. “Yeah,” he agrees. 

He just feels like he should be doing more, somehow. Matt had expected him to, he thinks, expected him to feel comfortable doing so. But he didn’t, not with it sprung on him like that. And now - George doesn’t know. Sitting there and having someone tell a room full of people who he dates, standing up and doing it himself, either option frankly make him feels like he might break out into hives. Supporting any player who might come to him, he can do that - though he doesn’t really expect anyone to. He might hear about it if anyone’s being particularly homophobic, he muses, but that’s a far step from any player actually coming out.

“What are you thinking?” Owen prompts.

George blinks, looks back to his phone screen - so eager to talk to Owen and now he’s ignoring him, what is he thinking? “Just - if I should have, come out,” he admits. “To the coaches - it would make it easier, let me talk more freely about it, let _them_ get better insight on what they can do for players. And it was only a few more players, with Ben and Tom already knowing.”

“Did you want to?” Owen asks.

George shakes his head.

“Do you want to now, do you feel comfortable thinking about telling them?”

George pauses, but ultimately has to shake his head.

“Then there you are,” Owen responds simply. “You don’t have to come out for other people. By being willing to talk to players you’re already taking a step more than you need to; O’Connor asking you shows that he knows that. If you don’t feel comfortable, that’s all there is to it.”

“Are _you_ comfortable, with the media?” George asks pointedly. 

Owen grimaces, shrugs. “But I wanted to,” he points out.

“I do, too,” George says, then immediately shakes his head. “I want to help other queer players, at least, give them support we never had. I know that if I came out, if they knew I was there, it would help.”

“But you don’t want to come out.”

George isn’t sure, is the thing. He doesn’t have a drive to come out, isn’t chomping at the bit like Owen had been when he was halfway through it. But it would make things simpler if more people knew he was bi, make his life easier in some ways - he can see that, now. And he does want to help, does see it as an angle that he can. _Telling_ people, seeing those initial reactions, is still a difficult concept - George wonders, as he has before, if it ever gets easier.

“Does it get easier?” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Coming out?” Owen asks.

“Telling people,” George specifies.

“I don’t have to, anymore,” Owen points out.

And if that isn’t the best argument George has ever heard for coming out.

“But - yeah, I think it does,” Owen goes on. “With Sarries, after Mark and Brad, it was so hard to tell people directly. I sort of referenced things, made offhand comments, stuff like that - I don’t know if you remember, Maro said none of the lads were too sure who knew I was gay, even if they _knew_. But by England camp, after we told Eddie -”

“You told Dan in front of half the squad,” George remembers, nodding.

“Yeah,” Owen smiles. “And it felt like - not nothing, it’s never nothing. But you beside me, Eddie having just been great about it - it was easy. I was sure in my decision, and it was easy.”

“I can’t imagine that,” George admits, shaking his head.

“Then maybe you’re not ready,” Owen suggests gently. “There’s no shame in that.”

“Do you think you were ready, when you started telling Sarries?” George asks.

Owen tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. George remembers him doing that at his family’s place down in Devon, remembers Gabe imitating him. He smothers a smile - it’s hardly the time. “I think I needed to,” Owen decides. “I don’t know what ready means, I’m not sure what ‘ready’ would look like - but I needed to. It was - clawing at my chest, every time the subject came up, even nearly came up. The words were ready to burst of out me, I just had to let them.”

George nods thoughtfully. That sounds more like how he’d felt, sat listening to Matt O’Connor, listening to the lads gossip afterwards, than he’d expected it to. When Owen had talked about wanting to come out before George had thought of the decision, of him deciding that he wanted to tell people about himself. George doesn’t feel like that. But he has felt that clawing sensation, has sat there listening to conversations and felt like the words might fly out of his mouth. 

He might still not be ready to tell people outright - those have only rarely been the words pressing at his lips, more often simply clear expressions of his position that he hasn’t felt brave enough to express, or harsh condemnations of coded homophobia that it’s probably wiser he keeps to himself in any case. But he wants to do more. After Greg had reacted so poorly at the start of the season George had backed away from the idea of mentioning Owen as his partner in front of Tigers, but maybe it’s time to reinstate it. Greg’s been pretty much fine since then, if anything overly friendly in what George suspects is a form of apology. Knowing he’s so close to how Owen had felt before he came out, hearing Matt O’Connor’s words, has boosted George’s confidence again.

“Alright,” he says, resolute. “I don’t want to tell people.”

Owen nods acknowledgement, simple acceptance.

“But I do want to do more, I do want - I don’t want to have to sit in silence,” George realises. That’s what it is, he doesn’t want to feel shackled like that, restricted. “I want to be able to shut people down, when I need to, I want to be able to talk about you, as my partner, and not _hide_ anymore.”

“Let me tell Sarries about you first,” Owen jokes.

George rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, not _you_ , but -”

“I know,” Owen assures him. “It’s a big step, babe. I don’t - it sounds great, I don’t want to knock it -”

“- but -” George says, along with Owen.

“If you start with ambiguity like this - someone could ask you about it, flat out. What would you do then?”

George scoffs. “They won’t even notice.”

“Toomua did, last season” Owen says, still serious. As if George has forgotten.

George shakes his head, opening his mouth, but Owen barrels on.

“Look, it’s a great plan, it sounds like it’ll make you more comfortable and I’m all for that, you know I am - but just because the risk is small doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Owen stresses.

“I know,” George tells him, shoulders hunching. “I know it is. But I can’t - I can’t keep saying nothing, I can’t keep watching myself, my words, like this.”

“Georgie -”

“I can’t tell people, either, I can’t - I don’t want them all to know, and I _know_ that’s useless, I _know_. I’m trying to walk on middle ground that isn’t there, I _know_ that - but it’s the only ground I can find.”

“Okay, Georgie,” Owen says, soft. “Okay.”

George wonders if he can tell, from his phone screen, how close George is to tears. But then who is he kidding, they’ve known each other half their lives - of course he can.

“I just don’t want you put in a position you’re not ready to be in,” Owen says gently. “But if you need to, you need to.”

“I just - I know what could happen, I do,” he tells Owen, doesn’t want him to think him a fool. “But if I start to think about it then I won’t stop, I’ll think about it all day every day. Then I won’t ever do this - and I want to. I _want_ to be more open, not _just_ so I can be more comfortable, but for my clubmates - the whole academy can’t be straight, it’s 2018!”

Owen startles into laughter. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “There’s - there’s a few, at Sarries. They’re about as clear as you’re planning to be about it, but they’re there. I’m sure Leicester are the same.”

George squints at him suspiciously, deliberately dramatic. “You got inside information on this?” Owen’s eyes widen, but George goes on before he can really react. “I’d never ask you to share, I’m kidding, don’t worry.”

Owen smiles, doesn’t say anything further.

George half wishes he hadn’t raised the topic, can’t help his own curiosity now that he has. 

“Don’t you worry, either -” Owen starts, before George can go too far down that train of thought.

“Thought you wanted me to,” George quirks a smile.

“I don’t want you to worry,” Owen insists. “I just don’t want you blindsided, put in a situation you’re not ready for. But you’ve got support, you know, you’re in a good place. Joe’d step in, if he could, if anything like that happened, I’m sure Ben and Jonny would too, anyone you’ve told - I wish I could be there, too, but you’re not alone in this, yeah?”

“Yeah,” George acknowledges, has to admit he hadn’t thought about it like that before. Dan’d step in too, he’s sure, even without knowing anything about the situation. Hadn’t that been the whole point of the meeting, ultimately - that there was support. “And - you are here, Owen. How many times have we talked about this, how I feel about coming out, what I’m comfortable with saying, what I _want_ to do? You’re there, every time.”

Owen shrugs. “Least I can do,” he claims. “I love you,” he adds, before George can tell him he’s being ridiculous.

“I love you too,” George smiles.

That’s not the end of it, far from it. George still has to actually go through with the choice he’s made, and only time will tell how that might turn out. But he’s got Owen, ready to listen, to help, whenever he needs him, and that means more than he thinks he could ever express. He’d started their call tense, tightly wound, and for all it had been an emotional conversation he’s leaving it uplifted, his confidence boosted - just from talking. And he’s got his teammates, those who know and probably some who don’t. He’s got support, for whatever he wants to do - and that’s worth the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and that those of you in the UK are (safely!) enjoying this apparent change in the seasons, too! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!
> 
> (PS: apologies to anyone who spotted the half a song lyric and was suddenly thrown back into the good old days of Merlin fandom in the middle of this fic ~~also you're welcome~~ , once the line was in there and I made the connection I really couldn't cut it out. More apologies to those of you who have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about right now!)


	7. Chapter 7

George and Kyle arrive at training to a ruckus in a corner of the changing room. There are players crowded around what seems to be someone’s phone, talking at the top of their voices. George glances around but can’t see Tom, so he dumps his bag on a bench with a sigh.

“Alright lads,” he calls loudly, making his way over. “What’s going on? Are you not getting enough exercise in training? I’m sure you shouldn’t have the energy to cause this much mayhem before 10am.”

“Take a look at Jord’s new girl and you’ll understand!” Mike Fitzgerald exclaims, shoving the phone in George’s face.

It’s a picture of Jordan and a girl around his age, their arms around each other’s waists. She is gorgeous, George sees, once he’s managed to take the phone and move it a reasonable distance from his eyes.

“She’s not my girl!” Jordan cries, before George can even begin to think of what to say to that.

George blinks, looking up.

“She’s my _cousin_ ,” Jordan insists, turning red when it just makes the guys catcall. “It was her birthday, stop making it _weird_.”

“Oi,” George cuts in over before anyone else can speak. “You heard the man. Just because you countryside weirdos don’t think anything of dating your cousins doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t have reasonable boundaries, leave off.”

There’s a round of laughter, a round of grumbling, but the lads disperse, heading out to the training pitch.

“This your phone?” George asks Jordan, when they’re gone.

Jordan nods, still looking miserable as he takes it back. “I was just showing Joe pictures of my brother, scrolled one too far.”

“Hey, you don’t have to apologise,” George tells him. “Those nosy bastards have no concept of boundaries, they should be the ones apologising to you.”

“Yeah,” Jordan sighs. “Guess that’s rugby though.”

“Not if we don’t let it be,” George says, voice firm.

Jordan blinks, making eye contact for the first time since George had got the rest of the lads to leave. “They keep saying I must have a girlfriend,” he tells George, shy. “I don’t, but they won’t stop looking. Fitz tried to unlock my phone the other day.”

“That’s not okay,” George replies, immediate. “You not having a girlfriend is none of their business, that’s totally fine -” 

“You would say that mate,” Gareth Owen weighs in. George turns around, surprised to see a few guys still getting ready for training. “When’s the last time you went on a date, anyway?”

George takes a deep breath. “Over the summer,” he tells him. “Had a lovely meal with my partner, thanks for your concern.”

Gareth pulls a face, conceding the point, and wanders out, taking the last few stragglers with him.

George breathes out, turns back to Jordan, keeping his voice low this time. “Look, I’ll have a word with Tom,” he says, raising a hand to cut Jordan off before he can object. “There’s a line between banter and bullying. They shouldn’t be going through your stuff, and if they’re upsetting you - whether they realise or not - they’re crossing it. We’ll just keep an eye out, step in if we see anything, like I just did - nothing more.”

Jordan bites his lips, but nods. “It’s just banter,” he says, as if by rote.

“I’m sure they think that, mate,” George says. “But if it’s upsetting you, it needs to stop.”

“Thanks, Fordy,” Jordan mutters, eyes on the floor.

George claps Jordan on the shoulder, waits for him to look up before giving him a little shake. “No worries,” he says with an encouraging smile. “Anytime, yeah?”

~

George is one of the first back into the changing rooms at the end of their training session - normally he’s among the last, but Kyle has a viewing on a place to rent and George doesn’t want to do anything that might get in the way of that. Joe had come back early, too, and George catches his eye for a grin - they’ve not seen enough of each other, recently. George feels bad leaving Kyle alone in the house, feels rude, and when Kyle is out he’s taking the opportunity to call Owen.

George glances over - Kyle is still pulling his shorts on, George has time for a quick chat.

“Alright Joe?” he asks, wandering over.

“Yeah - yourself?”

George nods. 

“Hardly seen any of you since you shacked up with him,” Joe says, nodding over to Kyle.

“It’s called being a good host, mate!” George exclaims, though he allows himself to grimace a bit, when he’s sure Kyle isn’t looking. “How’s the little man, and Connie?”

“Yeah, all good,” Joe nods. “I was going to do a barbecue this weekend - you’re invited, unless you’ve got somewhere better to be,” Joe smirks slightly, suggestive.

George laughs lightly. “Nah, my partner’s got plans,” he tells Joe. “I guess you’ll have to do.”

And George had only thought for a heartbeat before saying the word ‘partner’, after it had passed without comment this morning - but Dan’s head picks up, and he looks over with a frown. George hadn’t even thought anyone was paying attention to his and Joe’s family gossip. Did Dan notice? He had been so good in the meeting, and with Owen, he might be one of the more likely candidates to pick anything up. Is he going to say something?

Dan opens his mouth.

George isn’t ready to be challenged, isn’t ready to have someone comment on his choice of words. Joe’s next to him, Joe can help him, but he had wanted plausible deniability, doesn’t want it taken away.

“I didn’t know you were dating someone, Fordy,” Dan says.

George tries to hold his shoulders tense, not let himself slump in relief. From the quick glance Joe sends him he isn’t sure he’s managed.

“Ah, he’s well shacked up,” Joe tells Dan.

“You talking about me?” Kyle asks, appearing behind George’s shoulder.

“Nah, apparently Fordy’s got himself a lover,” Dan explains, waggling his eyebrows.

“Is that so?” Kyle asks, looking at George in surprise.

George just shrugs, still coming down from the anxiety of Dan’s reaction. 

“Yeah, but he’s been fobbed off this weekend, so now my invitation’s good enough for him,” Joe continues.

“Oh, that seems like a bad sign,” Dan teases.

George smiles, shakes his head. “Nah, it’s alright,” he tells Dan. “I’m not worried.” He knows full well that Owen would rather spend time with him than go on a club night out, his dismay when he’d told George about it had been clear even over text.

“Ugh, we get it, you’re in love,” Joe scoffs. “You better not be getting that all over my barbecue.”

“You and Connie don’t and I won’t either,” George retorts.

“Man, it’s been ages since I had a good barbecue!” Kyle enthuses. “I haven’t had one all summer.”

Joe looks to George, who shrugs minutely. It’s probably rude not to invite him, at this point. Dan at least has retreated to another conversation, so it won’t turn into a full blown club event.

“Living with George makes you close enough to family, you should come along,” Joe offers.

“And on that note, let’s see about getting you out,” George grins.

Kyle laughs good naturedly and they say their goodbyes, Joe promising to text George with details of the evening.

~

When Joe finally remembers to text George the details the barbecue is the very next evening, and Kyle is just as keen to come as he had been at the first mention of the idea. George kind of wishes he hadn’t been, would have liked a chance to talk with Joe and Connie openly, but he can’t exactly say that. Instead he lifts Kobe from Connie about half a minute after he’s introduced her and Kyle, making his way to his brother. Hopefully they can get at least a few minutes of honest conversation in.

“Hey, George,” Joe greets with a grin.

“Alright?” George replies, shifting so Joe can take hold of Kobe.

“Yeah, you?” Joe asks. “How’s having Kyle working out?”

George throws a glance over his shoulder, makes certain Kyle is out of hearing range. He shrugs one shoulder, “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” Joe prompts. “Not putting too much of a damper on things with lover boy?”

“You mean my partner?” George corrects absently. “It’s -” he pulls a face. “- it’s a bit tricky, yeah. Can’t really video call as much anymore, it feels rude to leave Kyle to fend for himself every night. But we’re doing okay.”

He misses Owen, still getting over the riches of their summer together, but he’s getting used to it. He hates it, but he is, and he thinks Owen is too.

“I think that says more about the amount you were calling,” Joe suggests, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s - after the summer, you know, we spent pretty much all of those 5 weeks together. I miss him,” George admits freely.

“Aww,” Joe coos loudly, attracting Kyle’s attention.

George shoves him, going with it easily when Kobe grabs hold of his hand and refuses to let go. “You imagine not seeing Connie for two weeks straight,” he suggests. “See how you get on.”

“Oh, I’d fall apart,” Joe agrees. “But you saw each other last weekend, yeah?”

“For about two minutes,” George grumbles, lowering his voice and Kyle and Connie make their way over. “Got roomed with Lenny, not exactly what we’d dreamed of.”

“Okay, okay, tmi,” Joe laughs. “Don’t need to know anything about those types of dreams.”

George rolls his eyes - he would shove Joe again, but Kobe is still gripping his fingers.

“Joe said we were your second choice this weekend,” Connie says with a smile as she and Kyle reach them, sitting on the low wall next to the patio. “Is your partner busy?”

“Yeah - just a night out, tonight, but,” George grimaces. A Sarries team night apparently starts with coffee in the morning, to plan the route of the pub crawl, then goes through to around 3 am. There’s no point him driving down to Owen to see him for half a day, which he’ll spend massively hungover. George wonders if he’ll still think that later in the season, or if they’ll have reached a point where even a few snatched hours are worth it.

“Doesn’t sound like their scene,” Connie points out, taking Kobe from Joe and distracting his focus from George’s hand. 

She’s clearly not thinking about it at all, but Connie is the first person to use ‘they’ pronouns for Owen without a dramatic pause. George smiles at her - she’d texted to ask if it was okay to discuss Owen, and he’d explained that Kyle knew he was dating someone, that George was referring to Owen as his partner in club settings. George wishes he could trust the rest of his teammates to understand and go along with things so easily - Greg had stared, when Kyle had mentioned George’s partner in front of him, and Tom hadn’t been much better.

“No, but it’s - work bonding, you know,” he says.

“You could’ve gone out with them,” Kyle suggests.

George can’t help the face he pulls at that. Saracens team bonding, him? He doesn’t think so. Owen can throw himself in well enough for a few nights a year, but even that is more than George really likes to. He has a feeling Saracens take it a step further than Tigers, too.

“Not exactly your scene either, is it?” Connie asks rhetorically, laughing.

George shrugs as the others join in - even Kobe.

“Hey, maybe I’m cramping Fordy’s style,” Kyle suggests, still chuckling. “I mean, he didn’t come out with us that night, Joey, but maybe he’s just trying to keep it on the downlow.”

“Nah, he just wanted to video call Faz,” Joe says. His eyebrows are raised suggestively by the time he realises his mistake - ‘Faz’, not ‘partner’. George catches the horrified expression on his face before he turns away from them all to fuss with Kobe.

George just about holds back a wince as Kyle looks to him, frowning. He guesses it’s up to him to make an excuse, then. He shrugs. “We’ve kept in touch pretty well right since juniors,” he says - lies. “We have a proper catch up every month or so, just wondered how things were getting on now he’s out to the media, back in training.”

“Joe’s been bugging him about a slow cook barbecue recipe,” Connie adds, true enough. “It’s what we’re having today.”

George hadn’t known that, turns to Joe to find him still turned away. He rolls his eyes and turns back to where Kyle is nodding understanding.

“How is it going for him?” Kyle asks.

George shrugs again. “Alright. Sarries aren’t making him do any media he doesn’t want to, not yet, and no one’s camped out at his house, so he’s happy enough.”

“That sounds like Faz,” Joe laughs, tentatively.

George meets his eyes and smiles slightly - it’s not like they can undo Joe’s misstep now, after all. 

“Wonder if they had that meeting we did, about the email from the RFU,” Kyle muses.

Not yet, George knows. It’s scheduled for early next week. “I expect so,” he says, not really wanting to open the topic with Kyle there.

Kyle takes the pause in conversation to excuse himself to the bathroom, Connie giving him directions.

He’s barely disappeared into the house before Connie reaches to take Kobe from Joe, punching him firmly in the arm once Kobe’s safe.

“Ow!” Joe exclaims. “What was that for?!”

“What was that for?!” she repeats, incredulous. “Apologise to your brother.”

Joe bites his lip, eyes wide. “I am sorry, George,” he tells him. “I wasn’t thinking properly!”

George shrugs. “No harm no foul. Just don’t do it again,” he grins forgiveness.

Joe returns the expression, relieved.

Connie rolls her eyes. “How have things been?” she asks George. “Talking about Owen at training - has anyone asked after him, anything like that?”

George shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve only mentioned my partner once or twice - no one seems to have noticed yet,” he tells her. “Maybe Dan. I wanted to ask, actually,” he turns to Joe, shooting Connie an apologetic look. “How’s the chat been about the RFU email, everything like that? Anything I’ve missed?”

“Nah, it’s been fine,” Joe tells him. “Bit more along the lines of Kyle, joking about people needing it, but nothing worse.”

George nods, happy with that.

“I’ve heard a couple of guys calling out language, actually,” Joe goes on. ”Guy Thompson’s not shy for a new lad.”

George smiles, pleased - he hadn’t seen any of that himself but is glad to hear it. He likes Guy so far, is glad to have something like that backing up his first impression.

He asks after Connie’s work, after Kobe, returning the conversation to more appropriate territory for Kyle’s return. It stays that way throughout the evening, though not without work on both George and Connie’s parts to keep it that way. 

George thinks Joe notices, towards the end of the evening. His brow furrows as Connie steps in to refocus a comment from Kyle, designed to draw George on his romantic life, with an anecdote about her and Joe. George does his best to relax but he can’t help the comparisons springing to mind between this barbecue and the one he and Owen had hosted before preseason started. 

George hadn’t had to hold anything back, then, none of them had. Now George can’t even fully answer the question of whether he’d be happy to take care of Joe and Connie’s dogs next weekend. He’d been planning on going down to Owen's, and while he’s sure Owen wouldn’t mind the change of plan too much he can’t, doesn’t want to, explain everything. He replies simply with ‘probably’, shakes his head ever so slightly when Connie opens her mouth to press. 

When the evening is over George hugs Connie tight, “Thank you,” he whispers, as he does so.

She squeezes him back, releasing him with a smile and a slight shake of her head before turning to lead Kyle back through the house.

Joe claps George on the shoulder before he can follow. “That was a bit awkward,” he grimaces. “You shouldn’t have let me invite him, I didn’t really think -”

George waves a hand, dismissing it. “It’s my life,” he says, with as genuine a smile as he can muster.

Joe’s expression shifts to dismay, concern, but George hurries into the house before Kyle can start to wonder where they’ve got to. It is his life, for now. But that’s what he’s trying to change; maybe in a year he’ll be able to hold conversations without having to be so aware of every nuance. But for now he’s grateful for Connie’s help in steering the discussion, keeping them away from topics where George would have to watch his words. For now, that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs. I'd love to hear from you in any of those places, or in the comments!


	8. Chapter 8

George had been anxious about Saracens’ meeting about the new support services for queer players, worried a meeting like that would provide an opportunity for members of Owen’s squad who they know full well are less than comfortable with his sexuality. The message he finds waiting on his phone after a gym session - _would love a call tonight, if you can_ \- doesn’t help his worries. George had been expecting them to call, sure, but he hadn’t necessarily been expecting Owen to ask for it. 

George can’t rush home, not without Kyle asking questions, but he does the best he can, whips them up a quick stir fry and vanishes with a wave of his phone. Kyle nods understandingly - in a way it’s better, having Kyle know he’s dating someone. In a way it’s worse, when George can’t answer his polite questions, doesn’t want to. He’ll have to come up with something to tell Kyle about the call tonight, he’s sure, something to answer the questions he’s sure to ask. Even if it’s just a polite ‘how is she?’, Kyle expects more than a three word reply. As he should - they’re mates, getting properly close again, and they’re living together. It’s stranger for him to not know anything about the person George is sure it’s increasingly clear is a big part of his life.

George sighs, shutting the bedroom door behind him and attempting to shut out those worries. Those are for later - now it’s time for his worries about Owen.

Owen picks up his call pretty much immediately, sat in his kitchen.

“Hey,” he smiles.

“Hey, Owen,” George feels himself soften at the sight of Owen. “What’s up?” he asks. “Everything go okay?”

“Yeah,” Owen says, with a sigh that belies his words.

“Yeah?” George prompts, sinking back into his pillows.

“Oh, the email meeting went fine,” Owen assures him. “Seriously, it was great - I can’t imagine having had that, back then.”

“That’s all because of you,” George reminds Owen, smiling fondly when he immediately shakes his head - typical.

“Ah, the backroom staff had to actually organise the whole thing, and Stonewall.” Owen says.

“Wouldn’t have happened without you,” George says. “You’re the pretty face of the enterprise, at least,” he adds, when Owen doesn’t respond.

Owen laughs at that. “Thanks, Georgie,” he rolls his eyes. “Actually, that’s kind of the thing - Sarries talked me into going to the Prem season launch,” he grimaces.

George pulls a face right back. He’s never had to go to one but he’s heard the stories. A day of waiting around for pictures, waiting around for media, doing media - George isn’t sure which of those is worse. “How’d that happen?” he asks, surprised it’s not on Brad.

“It clashes with our last preseason match, so Brad's on for that. They don't want me playing anywhere without proper security apparently.”

It makes sense, George supposes. It wouldn’t be the fans he was worried about either - George imagines the media will be twice as keen to get their hands on Owen.

“And they want to give the media a taste of me before everything kicks off,” Owen goes on. “Get the first run of stories out of the way.”

“That’s actually pretty sensible,” George reflects. The stories will come at some point - it might be less of a distraction if they start pre-season, give Owen and the lads a chance to get used to what it could be like.

Owen grimaces, but nods. “Yeah. I just don’t want to do it.”

“Sounds like it’s tough,” George says, bracing. 

Owen pulls a face - uncertain, now. George will have to do better.

“Hey, they’re right, it is a good introduction - for the media _and_ for you,” George soothes. “You know how these things work, they’ll have a list of the same questions for every player, and they’re on a deadline besides. With 11 other lads to get through they won’t have the spare time to pester you about coming out.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’ll stop them,” Owen bites his lip.

George doesn’t know what he can say to that. “You’ll have Sarries PR with you, the whole time?” he checks.

Owen nods. “I think so, yeah. Normally would.”

“Then get them to keep the questions to things you’re comfortable talking about. Let them deal with it - it’s literally their jobs, and I bet they like the power.”

That surprises a laugh out of Owen. “I bet they do. But I - I don’t know.” Owen drops his gaze. “What if I’m not sure yet what topics are okay, what I’m comfortable talking about?”

George wants to reach out, turn his chin up so Owen will look at him. He can’t. “Then you tell them when you find out,” he says gently. “Any story with you in is going to sell, you’ve got all the power there,” he reminds Owen. “The media just want a snippet of you talking - and that sucks, but you’d’ve been the selling point before as well, Mr England Captain. Remind them of that.”

“That’s -” Owen scrunches up his face, seeming confused. “I wouldn’t have thought that would help,” he muses.

“You’re welcome,” George laughs. “You wouldn’t just ban all non-rugby questions, then?” he prompts, curious now. 

“I’m not sure,” Owen repeats. “I definitely don’t want to talk about you, dating, my personal life - that’s off the table, I can tell PR that straight off.”

“That’s good, that’s a start,” George interjects, encouraging.

“But beyond that - I don’t really want to be asked about my sexuality, I don’t think. I don’t - the idea of them pressing me for answers on that kind of thing -”

George cringes along with Owen.

“- but, y’know - I came out. And I didn’t do that to never talk about it again, I did it to help. I haven’t done much yet, not really -”

“Hey, that’s not true at all,” George interrupts. “You’ve made such a difference, and you know that. You remember how much a player coming out means.”

Owen smiles at him. “Thanks, Georgie,” he says. “And I do, but I’d like to do more. Coming out is the start of normalising being queer in rugby, not the end - and banning questions about my sexuality doesn’t really feel like normalising it.”

George pulls a face - he understands Owen’s point there.

“But I don’t know if I trust the rugby media,” Owen says in a rush, before George can respond. “This is the season launch, it should be about the season, about rugby, but they know as well as I do that asking me about rugby isn’t going to draw in as big an audience as asking about my sexuality. All they want is hits - fair enough, that’s how it works - but I - honestly I dread to think what they’d ask to get those, what kind of headlines they’d put on everything. I don’t want that, making my coming out, my sexuality, into a spectacle - but I still want to talk about it.”

George nods thoughtfully, turning what Owen has said over in his mind. “Banning questions doesn’t mean you can’t talk about your sexuality,” he points out. “It just means they can’t badger you about it - you can still bring it up whenever you want, _if_ you want. And moving past the fact that you’ve already done more than enough for our community for an entire lifetime,” George looks at Owen pointedly. “If you want to do more, talk about your experience, whatever - you can always reach out to Stonewall. Do something for the Rainbow Laces campaign, anything - it’s not like they’d turn you down, you could basically do anything you want. And they’d want the story to spread, sure, but somehow I think they’d have a bit more consideration about the whole thing. You can talk about your sexuality without letting rugby media turn it into a spectacle, Owen.”

“You’re a genius, Georgie,” Owen huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know how I ever did any of this without you.”

George smiles, soft. “Did you?” he asks.

It’s overly sappy, and not entirely true, but also - it _is_. George had been there through Owen telling Saracens, had helped him - if not on quite such a personal level.

Owen looks at George fondly, and George can feel himself mirroring the look, feel an almost physical ache of how much he wants to kiss Owen when he looks like this. “Can’t wait to see you,” Owen says finally, hushed.

“Me neither,” George tells him. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Owen returns, smile rich with anticipation.

~

~

George wakes bright and early the next morning, the last day of training before half the squad disappear off to Europe. He almost skips down the stairs, floating on the knowledge that Owen will be sharing the house with him in under 36 short hours - and Joe and Connie’s dogs in less, though he won’t pretend he’s as excited about that.

“Morning,” he says to Kyle, who’s already up and poking at the coffee machine. “Let me do that,” George insists - he’s been enjoying teaching Kyle, but some mornings he just wants coffee without everything breaking. 

“Okay,” Kyle concedes, going to get himself breakfast. “You’re in a good mood,” he says, eyeing the way George is bouncing on his toes. “I guess you heard?”

George cocks his head to the side, still preoccupied with the coffee machine. “Heard?” he asks.

“About Cips.”

George shakes his head, turning to give Kyle his full attention. “What about him?”

“You didn’t hear?” Kyle asks, eyebrows shooting up. “What’s got you so excited then?”

George shrugs. “Hear what?”

“Nah, you first,” Kyle insists.

“I can’t just be happy?” George sighs when Kyle shakes his head. “My partner’s coming up tomorrow.”

“Aw, Fordy!” Kyle exclaims. “How long’s it been since you saw them?”

“Well, I _saw_ them yesterday,” George evades, not wanting to link the timing to an England camp.

Kyle rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “She gonna stick around long enough for me to meet?”

“Doubt it,” George turns back to the coffee machine. “Doesn’t get much time off, you know?”

“It’ll be the weekend.”

George shrugs. “Anyway, what’s the news about Cips?”

“Oh - he got _arrested_!”

George whirls around. “ _What?!_ ” he demands. “What for?”

“He got a bit feisty with security at a squad night out, then the cops - think it’s for resisting arrest?” Kyle says. “No official news yet though, just rugby gossip - from some pretty drunk sources!”

“Jeez,” George feels the corner of his mouth turn down. He may not wish Cipriani success but it’s clear to see how much an England shirt means to him, and if his chances have been scuppered over something like this… “And you thought I’d be happy about that?” he asks Kyle, remembering how their conversation had started.

Kyle shrugs. 

“Sure, I want to be in camp ahead of him - but because of my play, not off field stuff,” George frowns. “Did you guys not get on, back at Wasps?” 

Kyle shrugs. “He’s a cool dude,” he answers. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of guy, though.”

“How horrible a person d’you think I am?” George says, only half joking. “I agree, he seems like a cool guy - so I’m not going to celebrate him getting _arrested_.”

Kyle holds his hands up. “Okay, okay,” he appeases. “Didn’t really think about it, I guess.”

George turns back to the coffee machine, still dissatisfied but unwilling to argue about it.

“Didn’t know you had such a good weekend to look forward to,” Kyle goes on, suggestive.

George can’t help his smile at that - he does, after all.

~

Less than 36 hours later there’s a knock at the door, George rushing to open it. “Hey, love,” he greets, smile wide. 

Owen practically chases George back across the threshold, dropping his bags to the side with little care for the dogs running around their feet. He kisses George without even a greeting, George dropping to door to let it swing closed behind Owen, taking a hold of his shoulders instead. As Owen kisses him demandingly a shiver runs down George’s spine, following the path of Owen’s hands as he immediately seeks to put them on George’s bare skin.

“Missed you missed you missed you,” Owen chants, pulling away only so he can bury his head in George’s neck, hold him in a tight embrace.

“Missed you too,” George returns, feeling a lump grow in his throat. God, this is only two and a half weeks, and they’d even seen each other the weekend before - what are they going to be like in season? George guesses it’ll get easier, but in a way he doesn’t want it to. He thinks the Bristol camp had probably made things worse, too, rather than better, as they’d expected to have time together only to find it vanished on Eddie’s whim.

They stand there for long moments, the urgency of Owen’s arrival dissolving for all his hands are still pressed tight under George’s shirt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” George tells him softly, not making any move to let go.

Owen leans back, visibly shakes off the maudlin moment. “How about upstairs?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

George pretends to think about it, startled into laughter when Owen actually manages to pick him up by his hips, just for a second, and carry him a step towards the stairs.

“Alright alright,” he concedes, laughing, not sure why he had delayed in the first place. “You don’t have to put your back out over it. Though do feel free to try,” he adds with a grin.

Owen meets his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promises.

~

A few hours later the two of them are on the sofa, George settled into Owen’s lap, the movie they’d come down to watch completely ignored behind him. Instead, George is basking him the warmth of Owen’s body, his hold, their lips moving lazy and unhurried. They’re not building anywhere fast, just reconnecting, brushing hands over bodies and revelling in the freedom to touch. George has one of his hands on Owen’s jaw, tilting his face up, fingers just brushing at the edge of his hairline. His other is tucked under Owen’s shirt, resting on his spine. 

He’d rucked Owen’s shirt up getting it there, drawn away for a moment to look before Owen had pulled him back in. The image is still playing in his mind, every now and again, Owen’s abs peeking out from the hem of his shirt. Most of the time, however, he’s more distracted by Owen’s lips, or Owen’s own hold on him - one hand in the loose back pocket of his joggers, the other slipped up under his shirt to the bare skin of his hip. The former is currently being really quite distracting, clenching to a proper grip as Owen seems to try to pull George even closer.

George isn’t sure there’s physically space for him to _get_ closer, but he tries anyway, ends up just grinding their hips together. It makes Owen huff out a breath, breaking their kiss, so George does it again, revelling in the sparks chasing up his spine. Then he settles back, just a touch, leans in to connect their lips once more. They’ve got time, and George intends to take it, no matter how Owen’s digging his nails in. Owen gives back in to the kiss soon enough, soothes gentle fingers across the marks his nails had left. 

George is just considering rocking back in again, surprising Owen, when Joe’s dogs start to bark.

He pulls away from Owen, who frowns at him in surprise and confusion. Then they both hear the front door click.

“Sorry, sorry,” comes the drifting voice of Kyle from the doorway - drifting closer. “Left my phone charger,” he goes on, still loud - presumably not knowing where in the house George is. 

He’s about to find out.

“Don’t let me disturb your - love nest,” Kyle pauses before his last two words, pauses in the doorway, stops short at seeing George sat in the lap of what must very clearly be, even from behind, another man.

For his part George has managed to move his shocked gaze from Owen at Kyle’s arrival in the room, is now looking at Kyle with equally wide eyes.

Kyle pulls himself together quickly. “Okay, cool, makes how shifty you’ve been make sense, that’s cool,” he barrels on, barrels into the room. Walks past the two of them on the sofa to unplug his phone charger from the wall. George’s gaze drops back to Owen when Kyle leaves his field of vision, and he watches as Owen leans around him to follow Kyle’s movement. 

Owen looks as surprised as George feels, as overwhelmed and unsure of how to respond. It’s kind of funny, if George lets it be.

“I was a bit worried you were seeing someone else’s girlfriend, to be honest, this is kind of a relief,” Kyle goes on. He still hasn’t seen Owen’s face, hasn’t recognised him.

George shifts on Owen’s lap so he can twist and see Kyle, manages to pick just the moment Kyle is turning around to leave.

“Don’t let me - disturb you.” Again, there’s a pause before the last two words, as Kyle’s gaze lands on Owen and recognition is clear. 

“Owen Farrell,” Kyle says.

“Kyle Eastmond,” Owen replies, voice rich with amusement, nodding and lifting the hand from George’s back pocket in a brief wave.

Kyle just blinks.

“Don’t tell anyone,” George says, into the silence.

“Yeah,” Kyle agrees. “Okay, cool,” he accepts, a touch slower than the last time. “I’ll just,” he gestures towards the door.

George gives up, abruptly. There’s nothing left to salvage in terms of either secrecy or dignity. “Yeah, we’ll see you Kyle,” he dismisses.

“I guess on Sunday morning,” Owen provides, question clear in his tone.

George looks back to Owen, shrugs at his enquiring look. Owen had been planning on leaving before Kyle was due to get back, but there’s no point in that now. “Yeah,” George agrees, a smile beginning to grow at the realisation. “Don’t hurry back,” he throws over his shoulder, before untwisting himself to settle properly in Owen’s lap again.

It might not be by choice, George might freak out about it later, but for now - they don’t have to _hide_ , George doesn’t have to keep Owen secret inside his own house any more. Owen can stay as long as their training allows, won’t be chased out by someone else’s schedule. George can’t help but be happy about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I just about resisted the temptation to leave it on too dramatic of a cliffhanger, haha. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	9. Chapter 9

When the door shuts behind Kyle George expects the laughter he and Owen dissolve into, the tension release. After that, he expects to go back to kissing Owen, and he tries - it’s not like they can change anything now, why waste a perfectly good afternoon? But he can’t focus, shifting from side to side on Owen’s lap until Owen takes him by the hips, stills him. 

“Either do that more intentionally, or let’s talk,” Owen says gently.

George whines, dropping his head to Owen’s shoulder. “Don’t want to talk,” he tries.

“Okay,” Owen accepts easily, sliding his hands around onto George’s arse. “Think you might need to, though,” he points out, betraying his apparent acceptance of George’s implied decision.

George shakes his head, but makes no move to re-initiate their earlier activities. Then - “I should tell Joe,” he realises. “He can do something, if Kyle’s -” George bites his lip as the possibilities of what Kyle could be like start to flash through his mind. He could be fine. He could be, that’s definitely an option, he could be shocked - clearly was - but fine, keep their secret without so much as a second thought.

He could not be fine. He could not be fine and he could tell everyone, try to get George out of the team for fraternising with a Saracens’ player. He could not be fine and tell everyone, just as gossip, and then everyone could tell their mates, and their mates, until they’ve got media sitting on both their doorsteps. He could not be fine and _not_ tell anyone, but be so awkward and stiff with George from now on that he loses him as a friend. He could _think_ he’s fine and start picking up on Greg’s occasional uncomfortable jokes, start making his own, until it’s George who’s not fine.

“Talk to me,” Owen interrupts George’s spiralling thoughts, bringing a hand up to massage the back of his neck.

George breathes in, lets it out slow and steady, controlled. “What if he tells everyone?” he asks, not raising his head from Owen’s shoulder. Why had he just sat there like that, as Kyle came in? Why hadn’t he moved? There had been time but he’d frozen, and now Kyle knows, and they can never undo that.

“Will he?” Owen asks simply.

George takes another breath. _Will he?_

They’ve been friends for years, but even beyond that it’s just not in Kyle’s nature to cause trouble. The odd prank, the sort of stuff you expect out of rugby players, fair enough. But mischief like this, involving other people’s secrets? That’s never been the kind of thing Kyle would mess around with. Some lads love it, love the gossip with no concern for the boundaries they’re crossing, but Kyle’s not like that. If he _had_ walked in on George and someone’s girlfriend George doesn’t think he would have told, even then. He’s definitely not going to spread this.

“No,” George exhales. “No, I don’t think he will.”

“Okay,” Owen accepts. “For what it’s worth, I don’t either.”

Owen doesn’t know Kyle as well as George does, but they had shared England camps, and frankly any reassurance is a lifeline to George right now. George nods, sits back up.

“Okay,” he echoes. “So he’s not going to tell.”

“And he wasn’t great after the email meeting, I remember that -”

George grimaces agreement.

“- but now he’s been proved wrong. He’ll take it seriously, now - you said he dismissed the possibility more than being against it, yeah?”

George nods. “He wasn’t great after that meeting, but it was more ignorance, you know? After how Greg reacted I don’t want to predict anything, but -” George thinks, bites his lip. “Bath nights out were - interesting. He was one of the more comfortable lads in the gay bars, by a long shot. Might not mean anything to living with me, but it’s worth something.”

Owen raises an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he repeats. “So how are we feeling?” he prompts after a few moments, starting to draw circles on George’s hips with his thumbs.

“I… good,” George decides. “I feel good. I’m glad he knows, I’m glad I can talk about you, talk to you, that you can come visit. That was my first reaction, and it’s my main one. I don’t think I’ll calm down properly until he’s back,” he warns Owen. “Until we know he won’t say anything, know he won’t do anything. But - good.”

Owen smiles at George gently. “Good,” he echoes.

George leans in to kiss that smile, can’t not. “How are _you_ feeling?” he asks, drawing back, kicking himself for being so self centred. “We weren’t telling anyone about us, that was both of our decision, right?” 

“Right,” Owen replies pointedly, likely knowing George still has his moments of doubt about that. “But - same as you. Kyle can’t hurt us,” he elaborates, when George fixes him with a stare. “Not without telling people, which I agree with you, he won’t do. It’s England where it could get awkward, our clubs - he’s not going to tell them. He could hurt you, and yeah, I’m worried about that - same as you, I will be until we see how he acts,” he squeezes George’s hips. “It’s not ideal that he found out, anyone knowing adds to the risk, but - Joe knows anyway, our families. There’s always going to be some risk, for us to live. This is a risk I can live with, chosen or not.”

George nods slowly, considering that. “I should tell Joe,” he remembers, after a moment. He collapses forwards onto Owen in reluctance, treasures the close warmth for just a moment before pushing back, out of Owen’s hold, to get the phone he’s pretty certain he’s left in the kitchen.

“Hey, where are you going?” George asks Owen, when he too goes to stand. “I’ll be back in a sec - there’s a film to watch,” he adds with a wink.

~

George wakes slowly the next day, drawn from his slumber with every pass of Owen’s fingers along his spine. “Morning,” he smiles, not opening his eyes.

“Morning,” Owen returns, voice rough. He leans in to kiss George on the shoulder, and George lets out a quiet sound of contentment.

“Happy?” Owen asks, sounding amused.

“So happy,” George confirms, blinking his eyes open so he can see the smile he knows to be there. 

Owen looks as happy as George feels, smiling down at him softly. George leans in for a proper kiss.

“More mornings like this, please,” he requests, Owen humming agreement. “Oh, hey,” George remembers. “When I made Kyle a key, I had one made for you too,” he tells Owen.

George had meant to mention it as soon as Owen arrived, but it had slipped his mind in the excitement of seeing him again, then everything with Kyle. “It’s in the bedside table, don’t forget it when you go,” he adds, settling back down on Owen’s chest.

“You got me a key?” Owen asks, voice hushed.

George frowns, picking his head up to look at Owen again - he seems more touched than George had expected. “Of course,” George half shrugs. “You’re welcome here, whenever - and I can mean that, now Kyle knows. _Whenever_ ” he stresses. “You’ve had a bad training session, fed up of the lads, anything - you’re welcome here. Maybe let me know, so I can make sure to get home as quick as I can, but you don’t have to ask. 

“I know it’s not practical,” George adds, when Owen just looks at him, stars in his eyes. “But it’s not impossible, the commute between us, not if you needed. Any time, Owen. I mean it.”

Owen nods, smile growing across his face. “I love you,” he says simply.

“I love you too,” George leans in for another kiss. “Always want to see you.”

Owen sighs. “Wish we could,” he says.

George hums. “We could get a place in the middle,” he suggests. “It’s too long for every day, still, I think-”

Owen makes a noise of agreement - it’s not like their work isn’t physical, after all, after a long day of training George frankly doesn’t think it would always be safe to drive an hour home.

“- but we could have it for weekends, if that’s - if that’s something you’d want?”

“Of course it is, Georgie,” Owen tells him, voice hushed. “Where’s in the middle of us?”

George thinks for a minute. “Milton Keynes?” he asks, pulling a face. “Owen, I love you, but I’m not getting a house in _Milton Keynes_ for anyone.”

Owen laughs, kisses George once he’s settled down. George kisses back eagerly - he loves kisses like these, an overflowing of happiness leading to affection. And he’s excited, as Owen seems to be, to plan their futures. 

“A project for the off season, maybe,” Owen suggests.

George huffs - now he’s had the idea he wants to get moving, wants to find a space and make it _theirs_ , but - how could they view it? The two of them, together, looking at a house? It’s obvious. It’s too much, especially just after Owen has come out, when he’s that much in the news. Would they have to do separate viewings, have just one of them buy it? George feels himself sobering. Maybe it is simpler just to keep visiting each other, as much as the idea appeals.

“No, no, no unhappiness in this bed,” Owen tells him, sweeping in with another kiss, running his hands up and down George’s side in a way that George honestly can’t tell if it’s meant to be a comfort or a tickle. He laughs anyway, shoving the thought away. They don’t have time in season, Owen is right. They can sort out the mechanics later, if they need to.

“Thinking about Kyle?” Owen asks quietly.

George hadn’t been, but he doesn’t want to bring Owen down too, so just shrugs, lets Owen assume he’s right.

“It’ll be fine,” Owen tells him, pressing George close. “It’ll all be fine.”

George holds on, thinks about their future, and lets himself believe him.

~

When George and Owen finally get up a few hours later they find a text from Joe on George’s phone.

_got Kyle aside this morning, he’s fine. filled with questions - didn’t think it was my place to answer - but properly offended when I tried to hint that he might tell anyone. You’re good. But next time keep it in the bedroom, I sit on that sofa!!_

George laughs, showing the screen to Owen.

“Fat chance,” Owen chuckles, leaning over and sliding a hand up George’s thigh as they sit on the aforementioned sofa.

George sinks into the kiss, the warmth and weight of Owen’s body over him. He’s _missed_ this, missed Owen, missed _touch_. Owen moves away far quicker than George would like.

“You’re really okay, then, about Kyle?” Owen asks. 

“Yeah,” George assures him, for far from the first time. “I know it’s not what we planned, but it makes things easier, and I trust him.” Perhaps George doesn’t trust Kyle not to react badly, but he does trust him not to tell.

“You didn’t even want him to know about you,” Owen points out.

“I didn’t _want_ him to, no,” he agrees. “But he does, and I’m okay with that. I didn’t _not_ want him to know,” he expands, seeming to only confuse Owen more. “Look, it’s like -” George huffs, thinking. “I didn’t want to tell him, the idea of sitting him down and saying something, or even mentioning you as my boyfriend, it freaked me out. But him knowing I’m queer? Knowing that I’m bi, that I date guys?” George shrugs. “It’s not the worst idea in the world. It makes things easier, and I’m okay with that. Or - it should, anyway. I reserve the right to change my mind if he’s a dick about it all.”

Owen looks at George seriously, not returning his smile at what was admittedly a pretty poor joke. “Okay,” he accepts, after a moment. 

George isn’t sure Owen had understood what he was saying, but he also isn’t sure he understands how he feels about these things himself, so he doesn’t try to explain further. 

“Have you had a chance to talk to Sarries PR about the season launch?” George asks instead.

“No,” Owen pulls a face. “I might just email them - it seems easier. PR did pop into training before they announced Cipriani’s arrest, warn us to watch what we said, but that was it.”

“Ugh, that,” George rolls his eyes. “I bet Sarries didn’t stop talking about it all day either?”

“Nope,” Owen shakes his head, laughs outright at George’s huff. “Hey, he’s good for publicity.”

“Sure, I just don’t _care_ ,” George bursts out. “He seems alright, it’s a shame he’s in this mess - though he kinda did make it. And there we go, that’s the whole conversation! How they made it go on all day I have no idea.”

Owen hasn’t stopped laughing yet, so George goes on, getting on a roll.

“Kyle thought I was celebrating it, that morning, when I was just excited you were coming! As if I care that much!”

“Dating a teammate’s girlfriend, celebrating Cips getting arrested - Kyle doesn’t think much of you, does he?” Owen asks, still laughing.

“I guess not,” George says, managing to keep his tone dry while the truth of Owen’s words hits a bit too hard.

“Well that’s okay,” Owen slings his arm around George, pulls him in to smack a kiss on his temple. “I think the world of you.”

~

When Kyle comes back - with a five minute warning text, this time - George and Owen are sat on the sofa in the lounge, again. There’s a film on, again, but this time they’re actually watching it. Owen is curled up with his head on George’s shoulder, George’s arm around his back. George holds Owen in place when he goes to sit up.

“We’re in here,” George calls over the barking of the dogs, in response to Kyle’s stilted greeting. George had half expected him to knock, after the warning text, but is relieved he hasn’t. George wouldn’t have wanted to move.

Kyle comes in. “Oh, Philosopher’s Stone,” he says, briefly distracted. “Classic.”

“Feel free to join us, it’s only just started,” Owen tells him, nodding over to the second sofa.

“Oh, no,” Kyle shakes his head. “I don’t want to disturb you, I’ll just go upstairs, unpack, get out of your hair.”

“It’s fine,” George insists. “We don’t need to monopolise the whole lounge, there’s more than enough room for three. Sit.”

Kyle does, splitting his focus between the two of them and the TV pretty evenly for the first five minutes. When George and Owen fail to do anything more exciting than breathe Kyle finally manages to focus on the film, letting them do the same.

10 minutes into this Owen makes a comment about Quidditch training, and they’re off, mostly Kyle and Owen debating what physical training they must have to do, whether Hogwarts has a gym, and just how uncomfortable a broom really would be. George adds his thoughts here and there but mostly listens, happy to hear the two of them getting on. He lets that happiness express itself in a kiss, dropped onto Owen’s forehead. 

Kyle quiets, barely finishing his train of thought. 

Owen looks up to George, surprised and happy. George has to kiss that expression, just briefly. 

Owen beams when George pulls away, squeezing George’s knee, and responds to Kyle as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

It hasn’t, for all George’s heart is racing. It’s affection they’d shared easily in front of both their families, have been sharing easily between each other for years. It’s George’s own home, there’s no need for something like this to be special. It is, of course, because he loves Owen, and Owen loves him, but for no other reason. George won’t let Kyle’s presence stop them from enjoying a perfectly regular afternoon, won’t let it limit their behaviour when there’s no reason for it to.

They settle down after that, less theories flying between them and more simple comments on the film itself. It’s a nice evening, one George never could have imagined sharing.

When the film ends Kyle glances uncertainly back to George. “I’ll go unpack, now?” he asks.

Owen laughs. “I know it’s his house but you don’t need permission, mate.”

“Just because you’re a terrible houseguest,” George retorts.

“Not a guest now I’ve got a key, babe,” Owen smirks.

“Just terrible, then,” George grumbles.

Owen raises an eyebrow, and George gives him the kiss he’s clearly angling for.

“Have I moved into your house, too?” Kyle asks Owen when they’re done, only half joking.

“Eh, not quite, but I’ve got a key as of about twelve hours ago,” he grins.

George smiles at Owen’s clear excitement.

“How long have you two been -?” Kyle lets the question die, glancing between the two of them.

George looks at Owen, who shrugs. He turns to Kyle, and shrugs himself. “Depends how you count it,” he replies. “But we’ll say six months.”

“And you - Joe knows?” Kyle asks, looking less uncertain now he’d had one question answered, not slapped down.

“And Jacob, our parents, my siblings - all our immediate family,” Owen tells him.

“And you,” George adds. “That’s it. I don’t think we really have to ask, but -”

“Yeah, I won’t tell anyone,” Kyle promises, intent. “I didn’t - I never would have guessed, that you were gay -”

“Bi,” George interrupts. 

Kyle stops. 

“I’m bisexual,” George repeats. “I’m not gay.”

“Okay,” Kyle nods. “But I never would have known, about you or the two of you. You don’t need to worry, you’re doing a great job.”

George grimaces. “I’m not - strictly trying to hide things from Leicester,” he tells Kyle. “Not really. A few of the lads there know - Ben and Jonny, Matty, and I told Tom and Matt O’Connor last season, in case of trouble. I’m not lying about this stuff, not anymore, or I’m trying not to. If that means people figure it out, well - we’ll see how it goes.”

Owen squeezes George around the hips.

“Okay,” Kyle nods again, slower this time. “Oh! You always said ‘partner’, talking about Owen.”

“Not lying,” George confirms.

“Yeah,” Kyle seems to digest this for a moment. “How did you get together?” he asks. “Or - sorry,” he seems to remember himself. “Just tell me to back off, if you like, I’ll stop being nosy.”

“No,” George tells him, looking down to Owen for confirmation. “It’s - nice.”

And it is. They spend their evening wrapped together, telling their story to the first real outsider, the first person who hadn’t known them as kids, hadn’t seen first hand how they’d grown. George’s dad had almost counted, for all his ignorance of their situation, but even he could remember the main beats - George moving away, reconnecting in juniors, reconnecting _again_ in seniors. This is their first time discussing - or even acknowledging - their relationship with someone who hadn’t been around for pretty much every stage of it. 

It is nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that chapter! You may all be glad to hear that the season is _finally_ going to actually start in the next chapter, haha. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments! Hope you and yours are safe and well <3


	10. Chapter 10

Time seems to fly, once Kyle knows, through the end of preseason and into the season proper, helped along by the chaos of Kyle moving out. George will be happy to have the house to himself once again, but Kyle had proved a better housemate than he’d feared. In a way the worst had happened - Kyle walking in on him and Owen - but despite every fear of condemnation, of revelation, all that day had given them was a pleasant shared evening and an additional level of understanding between the two of them. It had been the opposite of Greg - Greg is still joking around in ways George can’t quite appreciate, when George hadn’t feared him knowing. With Kyle it’s been nearly a total non-issue, the initial surprise aside, when George _had_ feared his reaction.

While George is busy on the domestic front Owen is busy with the media, dealing with them for the first time since coming out and keeping them well in their place. Owen steps out of his comfort zone, speaking to Stonewall about contributing to their Rainbow Laces campaign, a campaign the two of them have discussed in hushed voices many times over the years. George also has to deal with his Tigers, calling out more casual homophobia than he used to feel able to, and finds himself far from alone in doing so. George’s friends, his teammates who know, step up to support him - and they’re not the only ones. 

It’s new territory for both of them and George wishes he was navigating it as well as he thinks Owen is. George feels unprepared all preseason, as if he’s only reacting to what happens around him. He’s unprepared the first time someone refers to his partner as his girlfriend, unprepared the first time someone refers to his partner as his partner. And it’s more than that - he’s unprepared on the coach to Exeter, unprepared when they get on the pitch. He feels unprepared afterwards, sat in the changing rooms, as the rest of the players argue about their performance. Tom comes over, sits down next to him. They exchange a speaking look.

“Do you want to come talk to the board?” Tom asks.

“No,” George exhales. “But I will.”

George isn’t convinced that they could never win with Matt O’Connor, theoretically - and he likes him well enough, he’s a likable guy - but after just a few minutes in that post match locker room George is convinced that they can never win with him practically. The lads don’t believe in him, and you can’t play like that. So George goes with Tom to say as much, feeling unprepared for the responsibility, unsure what they’re going to do afterwards.

When they finally all clamber on to the bus home - Matt O’Connor none the wiser of what is coming his way - George wants nothing more than to sleep the drive away. He manages to wrangle a window seat, a good start, then Jonny comes to sit next to him - not so good.

Jonny smiles at him, and George just about manages to smile back. He loves Jonny, he does, and he knows him more than well enough to appreciate what an excellent rugby brain he has, hidden as it sometimes can be underneath a layer of strange metaphors. George would love to digest the game with Jonny, thinks he’d get a lot out of it - but not right now. Right now all George wants is to sleep, maybe after stewing for a few minutes on Tom coming to him, and hope it all looks better when he wakes up. 

Jonny opens his mouth and George feels a rush of dread, of tiredness, immediately followed by a rush of guilt.

“Thought you might want to call your partner,” Jonny says quietly. “Then nap, if I know you,” he adds shrewdly. “I can play buffer, if that’s what you need,” he shrugs. “Or we can go over the match, but I thought - maybe not yet.”

_Call Owen_ \- George hasn’t even thought about the possibility, hasn’t thought about anything but the club since the start of the match. _Call Owen_ \- Owen wouldn’t make him go over the match, though George is sure he’d offer. George could - no. 

No, he can’t. 

Owen is room sharing before Newcastle, with who knows who, and George can’t imagine any way to have the conversation that wouldn’t be far too revealing on his end. George might not even be able to speak to Owen tomorrow - a three o’clock kick off in Newcastle means a fairly late evening arrival for Owen in Saint Albans. But even with the crashing reappearance of reality George still feels lifted by Jonny’s consideration. The guilt is heightened - he’d been dreading talking to Jonny while Jonny had been thinking about him, looking out for him - but the relief of the chance to sleep, undisturbed, is stronger still.

“Thank you,” George says, intent.

Jonny dismisses the thanks with a shake of his head. “Saw you and Tom vanish off - I’m not asking, don’t worry. Just thought it might have been enough to deal with.”

“You’re a good friend, Jonny,” George tells him, gripping his knee briefly.

Jonny blushes, but smiles at George and knocks their knees together before turning to Ben across the aisle, distracting him as promised.

George sinks back into his seat, into his peace. He does pull his phone out and is touched to find commiserations from Elle and Colleen along with the messages from his own family, a couple of friends, and Owen. George sends quick acknowledgements and thanks, saving Owen’s message for last. _sorry about your match_ , Owen’s message begins, standard fare. _if you get this before 9, call me - Kruiso gone to play Fortnite with the forwards._

George hits call almost before he’s finished reading the explanation.

“Hey, Georgie,” Owen greets.

“Hey,” George manages.

“Saw the game,” Owen tells him, unsurprisingly. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“Yeah,” George acknowledges, rubbing his temples as he slumps back into his seat. “Yeah.”

“I love you,” Owen tries next. “I just - oh, I don’t know what to say, I just - want to hold you.”

“Yeah,” George repeats, all he can manage around the lump that’s suddenly appeared in his throat.

“It wasn’t as bad as the scoreline seemed, mostly,” Owen appeases.

“I don’t want -” George interrupts, then is interrupted himself.

“No, yeah, I guess you’ve had enough of it.”

George turns towards the window, lowers his voice so far he can barely hear himself. “Went over it with Tom and the board. We’re probably going to get rid of O’Connor. Like, now.”

It’s a relief to tell someone else, to share that, for all he suspects Jonny is far from the only player who had noticed him and Tom disappear off, far from the only one who has a pretty decent idea of what it was about. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Owen, given their respective positions, especially when he’s still actively trying to keep it from Tigers until the decision is final - but the news will be out there soon enough, and George hardly thinks Owen is going to turn around and gossip. And he needs to, needs to talk to someone, and someone who isn’t so closely affected by it.

“That’s - wow, Georgie,” Owen is clearly shocked. “What happened?”

“Tom came to me after the match,” George continues, just as quiet, with more appreciation for Jonny’s loudness next to him that he thinks he’s ever felt before. “The chat in the locker room was bad - we went to find the board, talked it over on the way. There’s been mutterings a bit, all preseason - after an opener like that no one was hiding it, it didn’t seem like anyone trusted what we were doing. We couldn’t spend a season like that.”

“I’m sure you made the right choice,” Owen tells him, faith plain to hear.

George just sighs. “I love you,” he tells him.

“Right back at you, Georgie,” Owen replies, a smile clearly audible this time. “You sound tired,” he adds.

“Could do with a nap, maybe,” George admits, dropping his head back against the headrest. He feels better for talking out what had happened, even that tiny bit, but he also feels deflated, as if that tension had been the only thing keeping him up. 

“Have a nap,” Owen encourages. “You’ve earnt it.”

George just hums. He does want to have that nap, but he’s not ready to say goodbye to Owen just yet.

“How’s your day been?” he asks. “All go smoothly?”

“Yeah,” Owen confirms. “Everyone’s excited to get playing again properly - lot of impatience in the air watching your game, no one seems especially happy we’ve got a Sunday game.”

George laughs, just a little. “I bet,” he agrees. “How are _you_ feeling?” he asks, more pointedly.

It’s the first match Owen is playing since coming out, after all, the first time he’ll be seeing crowds of fans.

“I’d rather be starting out at home,” Owen says, not for the first time. “But I feel okay. We’ll see how it goes, but either way there’s nothing I can do about it now, and I wouldn’t change anything. Whatever happens, I wouldn’t change anything.”

George thinks that last repetition was probably for Owen’s benefit more than his, but decides not to mention it. “What you’ve done is brilliant, you’re brilliant, and you’re going to get all the appreciation you deserve for it,” he tells Owen, hoping saying it will make it true.

“Maybe not for on the pitch stuff,” Owen points out.

George rolls his eyes. “Maybe not. But it’ll be fine, and even if it isn’t _you’ll_ be fine.”

“And so will you,” Owen tells him. “You and your Tigers.”

They sit in quiet for a moment.

“Might have that nap now,” George says.

Owen makes a noise of agreement. “Sleep well,” he bids. “I’ll call you - at some point, tomorrow. Maybe right after, depending.”

“Whenever,” George invites. “Good luck for - it,” George stumbles, only remembering the need to watch his words half way through the sentence. Talking about changes all the lads will soon know about is dangerous enough, them hearing his partner plays rugby is not a risk he wants to take. “All of it. But it’ll be fine, love.”

“I hope so. Talk to you soon.”

“Tomorrow,” George bids, ringing off.

~

Owen does call George straight after the match. George is still watching the post show breakdown when his phone buzzes to signal Owen’s call - a video call, too. He picks up eagerly - he’d texted his congratulations to Owen, and having watched the match he’d seen with his own eyes how the crowd had reacted - but he doesn’t know how it _felt_ , doesn’t know how Owen is feeling now.

“Hey, love,” George greets.

“Hiya - did you watch?”

“Owen,” George rebukes. “Of course.”

Owen shrugs a shoulder, but he looks pleased.

“Hell of a crowd,” George prompts.

“Hell of a crowd,” Owen repeats, wondering. He shakes his head. “I never thought -”

“Me neither,” George agrees. 

He hadn’t expected Owen to get a negative response, hadn’t been quite so pessimistic, but he never could have imagined the level of consistency with which the fans - the Newcastle fans, the opposition fans - had cheered virtually everything Owen had done. 

“It wasn’t the cheering, so much,” Owen explains. “That was - beyond anything, I never could have imagined that. But the best part was the fans, before the match, after it, young lads saying what it meant to them, that they’d told their teams they were gay because of me, that they felt better for it. And older guys, too, guys way older than me, girls, everyone. Everyone had a story to tell - I’m not sure I met a straight person all night!”

George laughs, feeding off the joy clear in Owen’s voice.

“The last person I spoke to, before the match - it was the first rugby match they’d ever been to, said they’d never seen a Premiership match before, only a few internationals on TV - but they were so touched by what I’d done, thought I’d done such a good thing, that they wanted to come and tell me. It’s _ridiculous_.”

“It’s incredible,” George tells him. “You’re incredible.”

“I can’t believe it,” Owen says simply. “Never, in my wildest dreams - especially at an away match, having that first. I was so nervous, my first kick, waiting for someone to yell something, but -”

But Owen’s kicks had been perfectly respected and loudly applauded, him and Saracens cheered on and off the pitch.

“That’s what what you’ve done means,” George tells Owen, needing him to know it. “What you’ve done is so big it can give you support like that, hundreds of miles from home - because you’ve helped people there, and everywhere. No one will feel like we did, like it was us against the world - they know about you, everyone knows about you, and that changes - everything. Alfie was too early to start it maybe, but you’ve helped those kids to come out, older guys, everyone - no one will be alone, now. There’s a network forming, support everywhere - and that’s because of you.”

“Stop trying to make me cry, I’ve got to go back out to the lads in a minute,” Owen interrupts. His tone is joking, but George can hear roughness under it. “Alfie was as bad, texting me 10 minutes before the game - you’d think he was trying to break my focus.”

“I love you,” George reminds Owen, rather than addressing the fact that Owen was on his phone before the game, when normally he doesn’t check it after the beginning of warm up. George wonders if he’d picked it up at the notification or if he’d been on anyway, reading over the good luck messages George - and George is sure Owen’s family, too - had texted that morning. “And I’m proud of you,” he adds, can’t not, despite doubting it’ll make Owen any less emotional.

“I love you too,” Owen smiles.

“Are you -” George squints at Owen’s surroundings, to move the conversation on. “Are you calling me from a medical room?”

“Yeah,” Owen admits, laughing. “Just to get a bit of privacy, so I could see you. I should go soon, but - how’re things your end?”

George sighs. “We’re definitely getting rid of Matt O’Connor,” he tells Owen. “Had an email out - Geordie, Geordan Murphy - he’s one of our current coaches, ex-player?”

Owen nods recognition.

“He’ll be interim head coach, then - we’ll see.” George shrugs. “Reckon it’ll be a busy week of meetings, either way.”

“Yeah,” Owen says ruefully. “I don’t envy you that. Are you going to tell him you’re bi?”

George winces - there it is, the question he’s so carefully been avoiding in his own mind. “I’m sure he’ll be busy this week at least, won’t have time for a meeting like that,” he deflects.

Owen looks at George carefully, before visibly deciding not to press. They really don’t have the time. “How’ve the lads been about it all?”

George shrugs. “Hard to tell online - seems mostly okay, bit of relief, excitement for the change - people trust Geordie, I think. He’s a good pick. How have yours been, about all your stuff?” he asks, wanting to get away from the negativity of his situation, not bring Owen down. 

“Yeah, good,” Owen nods. “Bit baffled, I think, today, by the strength of the reaction - but then so was I. They haven’t said much to me about it - I guess we’ll get into it on the way home.”

“D’you want me to try harder to make you cry, then, so they can’t manage it?” George offers, teasing.

Owen laughs. “No, thanks. They wouldn’t manage, anyway - they don’t get it like you do,” he tells George, who feels a ring of kinship at the words. “I should get going, anyway. I’ll wave at you when we drive past,” he quirks a grin.

George laughs. “Text me and I’ll wave back!”

~

The next day, Tigers’ first day with Geordie as interim head coach, goes about as George had expected. They open with a team meeting, Geordie telling the team as best he can what changes he is going to make - those he’s managed to decide upon in two days, at least. From there on they stick with a fairly regular routine of training and gym work, yet it somehow feels as if the meeting never ends. The team get through their usual sets, but take about half an hour longer than usual as a result of all of the pauses for gossip, all of the distracted working. It’s positive chat, mostly, not something George wants to interrupt, but after the first half hour of hearing the same conversation repeated, the same speculation rehashed every time a new set of people meet up, George has had more than enough of it.

That’s not to say that George doesn’t participate - it seems like every player he talks to wants to get his opinion on Geordie, on how he might serve them, and Ben whisks him away for lunch with the senior group of players to discuss it further. That discussion George appreciates, feeling it goes deeper than a lot of the speculation he’d heard in the gym, looking more at what they as players might be able to do to assist and advise Geordie in changing the way the team works, rather than just imagining what magical changes Geordie can bestow on them. But by mid afternoon, when training finishes, George would be quite happy to never hear the name ‘Geordie’ again - so of course that’s when Geordie calls him over.

“Alright?” George asks, not wanting to waste time.

“I think so,” Geordie nods. “What do you think?”

George surveys the field, the lads leaving it - joking together, in high spirits. “Yeah, I think so,” he agrees.

Geordie smiles at him warmly. “I’ve already spoken to a few of the senior players, and I’ll speak to everyone in the coming few weeks, but - I wanted to set up a meeting, to hear your thoughts on what went wrong under Matt O’Connor, what I - and all of us - can do right. Would you have time before training tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” George nods, smile becoming fixed. “Yeah, that should be fine. What time - I guess you’ve got a lot of other guys to get through, too?”

“I’m speaking to Tom this evening, and the coaching staff,” Geordie tells him, “but yeah. Would an hour before training suit? I know you’re more of an early bird than a lot of lads.”

“Yeah, that should be fine,” George agrees. “I can always ask Jonny to take Kyle so he doesn’t have to come in so early.”

“I’m speaking to Jonny after training tomorrow,” Geordie nods agreement. “Thank you, George.”

George takes that as dismissal and heads back to the changing room, mind buzzing. Tomorrow morning. He’s having a solo meeting with Geordie, his new head coach - interim for now, but George wouldn’t be surprised if it sticks - tomorrow morning. He’d hoped for more time, if he’s honest. 

“What’d the top dog want?” Ben asks, as soon as George enters the changing room.

“Meeting tomorrow morning,” George tells him. “He’ll do everyone eventually,” he tells the rest of the squad, who aren’t even bothering to pretend they’re not listening in.

There are scattered nods as people return to their own business.

“I’m after training,” Jonny tells him, as George comes to change in the space between him and Kyle.

George nods acknowledgement, mostly thinking ahead to the meeting. He needs to get his thoughts about Matt O’Connor in order - he thinks he’ll write some points down to refer to. That shouldn’t be too hard, and neither should his thoughts about how the squad would best play. The harder question is - 

“Are you going to tell him, about - ?” It’s Jonny who asks, voice low. 

He shrugs at Jonny, at Kyle and Ben who were close enough to hear and look like they know equally well what Jonny means. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Is he going to tell Geordie about his sexuality, that the partner he’s been talking about is a man, and that he has no plans to stop talking about him? With Matt O’Connor George had been able to refer to Owen casually, when it had come up in conversation - he can’t rely on that here. He’s talking about Owen, about his partner, more and more within the squad - he doesn’t think they’re all oblivious, and that means he’s not entirely safe. 

To tell Geordie in that meeting would be coming out in the sense that George hates most - a serious, direct conversation. He doesn’t want to have that, doesn’t want to tell Geordie, doesn’t want to go in there and make a big deal of his sexuality with his boss. But neither does he want to lose the support and consideration he’d been granted with Matt O’Connor knowing. 

George has a choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! What a start to the season it was for Leicester - between that and Kyle it was like the rugby world was trying to give me things to write about. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	11. Chapter 11

George exhales slowly, looking at the door to Geordie’s office. He hasn’t slept enough for this. He inhales steadily, controlled, and raps smartly on the door, pushing it open.

“Hi there,” Geordie greets with a grin, standing to take George’s hand. “Thanks for coming in early,” he says, sitting again.

“It’s no problem,” George assures him, taking his own seat opposite Geordie’s desk. “I appreciate that you wanted to talk - I can only imagine the demands on your time, it means a lot that you’re making time for us players.”

Geordie waves a hand, dismissing that. “Of course,” he says. “Now -”

“I -” George interrupts, smiles at Geordie gratefully when he stops. “I wanted to say something, tell you something, before we get on with the meeting proper.”

“Of course,” Geordie says, after a beat of quiet. He’s clearly surprised, already.

George inhales, exhales.

“I’m - my partner, the one I’ve been talking about - they’re a guy,” George says.

“A - a guy?” Geordie stutters.

There’s none of the calm impassivity of Eddie, the lack of surprise from Joe, and even Andy.

“A man, yes,” George rushes. “I’m dating a guy, I’m bisexual. Have been as long as I’ve been at this club - I’ve known for longer, even,” he adds.

“Right,” Geordie blinks. “I mean, I’d gathered you were dating someone, but I just assumed -”

“Yeah,” George cuts him off. “People tend to. And I’m going to keep letting them, but I’m not going to stop talking about him, about my partner. That’s how I’m referring to him, and I’ll keep to gender neutral pronouns too -”

Geordie mouths the words ‘gender neutral pronouns’ to himself.

George rolls his eyes, starting to bounce his knee. “They,” he clarifies, unable to stop the flood of words now they’ve started. “I’m not saying boyfriend, I’m not using he, but I’m not going to stop talking about him either, and I’m not going to pretend he’s a girl.”

“That’s - of course,” Geordie starts to gather himself. “Of course, and - any support we can give you, just let us know. Did Matt -”

“Matt knew, yeah,” George answers. “That’s part of why I’m telling you. But I don’t want to tell the other staff, don’t want to _tell_ anyone, really. They might figure it out, they might not - that’s on them. But I’m not hiding it, not really. I told the Youngs brothers, when I told Matt last season - well, Lenny’s known for a while, but -” George waves a hand, cuts off that irrelevant tangent. “And Bateman knows, Jonny May and Matt Toomua, Kyle Eastmond - and my Joe, too,” George hadn’t realised just how many people in the squad knew, until he listed them like that. “It’s not a secret, anymore. Those lads’ve told me they’re not going to tell anyone, and I believe them. I’m not advertising it, but - I won’t go back to it being a secret. I won’t hide.”

With that George bites his lip, watching Geordie cautiously. He still seems to be recovering from the shock.

“That’s absolutely fine, George, of course - thank you for telling me,” Geordie says. “I won’t tell any other staff, or players. Is there - is there anything I can do to help, or support you, beyond that?”

George thinks. He doesn’t want to let a chance like this pass up - who knows how long it will be before he gets the opportunity to speak truly openly with his head coach about this again. “I guess the only thing is - I mentioned this a bit in those pre-season meetings, about the Stonewall support. Being asked, flat out - the way Mattie did, actually - it’s the worst. I don’t want to watch what I say, I won’t, I can’t keep doing it - but I don’t want to be asked about it, don’t want to be forced to tell anyone.”

“Never, George,” Geordie assures him, immediate. “I’d never make you disclose anything, and anything you tell me is immediately private, you know that.”

“I do,” George smiles. “And I’ve obviously been talking around this half my life, I reckon I’ve got it covered, but - if you hear something, and you can help change the topic, bail me out - I’d appreciate it,” he shrugs. “I think that’s it, really - you’ve been good about the rest anyway.”

“Thank you, George,” Geordie replies genuinely. “I’ll certainly do that, but do feel free to keep me updated if there’s anything or anyone in particular to look out for, or anything else I can do.”

George relaxes back into his seat. “Okay,” he says to Geordie. “I just wanted to let you know - you can get on with the meeting you planned, now.”

Geordie smiles at George fondly. “Not so fast,” he says. “I’ve known you for - how many years? Let’s not work it out,” he adds hastily. “It doesn’t matter to me that you’re dating a man, but it does matter - you’re happy? You’ve seemed it, when you mention him, but you’ve also seemed a little reserved - I guess I know why, now.”

“Yeah,” George smiles at Geordie, small. “Yeah, I’m happy. We’re - I’m pretty sure this is it, you know?” he tells Geordie, biting down on his lip to contain his smile.

“Wedding bells?” Geordie asks, seemingly with no such reservations as his smile grows to a grin. “I’m glad,” he tells George.

And he genuinely seems it. It hadn’t been the best first reaction George has had to his sexuality, but Geordie seems fine already, pleased for George, shuffling his papers, happy to move on.

“Now, about preseason -” Geordie begins.

George breathes out, slow and steady, and focuses on the words of his head coach.

~

“How’d it go?” Jonny demands, coming to sit by George the instant he gets into training, Kyle trailing behind him.

“Oh,” George looks between the two of them, the way Jonny is looking at him so intently, feeling slightly flustered. “All fine,” he tells them. “I think you’ll like a lot of what he’s got to say about how he wants us to play.”

“I didn’t mean -”

“I know what you meant,” George smiles at Jonny. “It was _all_ fine.”

Jonny slumps in relief. “Good. I - I mean, uh -” he glances at Kyle nervously, only just seeming to realise that he’d followed quite so closely behind.

“Kyle knows,” George tells him, rolling his eyes.

“I know more than you, actually,” Kyle brags.

“Kyle,” George cuts him off, Kyle looking appropriately shamed. 

Thankfully Ben arrives before Jonny can do more than frown in response.

“All alright here lads?” he asks, looking at George significantly.

“All fine,” George rolls his eyes again. “I have dealt with this for about a decade by myself, you know, you don’t need to hover,” he tells them.

Ben looks at Kyle, wide eyed.

“He knows,” Jonny confirms.

“Okay,” Ben takes this in stride. “So much for not telling people, eh? It’ll be the whole squad before you know it.”

George winces. Maybe not yet. He’d told Geordan he wasn’t hiding, wouldn’t hide again. He’d laid down a clear line, thinking that was best, and he hadn’t said anything he didn’t mean. But the idea of the whole squad knowing, of his teammates gossipping about it - because they would, of course they would. It’s still not something he can claim to be comfortable with.

“Didn’t mean to hover, Fordy,” Kyle says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“No,” Jonny agrees. “But - we want to support you. Like you support Faz,” he adds, smiling encouragingly. “You wouldn’t’ve let him do something like this without letting him know you cared, would you?”

George hadn’t, had messaged Owen good luck in the morning before he’d told his head coach, and they’d called in the evening. But then that situation is a little different, even if they hadn’t been dating then. “No,” he agrees, smiling faintly at them all. The smile grows when Jonny beams in return - it is touching, their support, if a little overwhelming after so many years dealing - or not dealing - with his sexuality largely by himself.

“Anyway, aren’t you glad it went well and we don’t have to usurp another head coach so soon?” Jonny asks Ben. “We’d’ve started to get a reputation!”

George laughs at the idea that they haven’t already.

Kyle laughs, too. “Bit extreme don’t you think, lads?”

“Not at all!” Ben defends. “If our star player isn’t comfortable, isn’t playing as if he’s comfortable, then what’s the point? We won’t get anywhere without our Fordy leading the way!”

~

“How did it go?” Owen demands, the instant George calls him that night.

“Good evening Owen,” George teases. “Nice to see you too.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Speaking to you is the highlight of my days,” he says sarcastically. “I’ve been longing to see you since we hung up 22 hours ago - and a two word text message wasn’t enough, how was telling Geordie?!”

George laughs at Owen’s eagerness. “You know, I’m sure I wasn’t this demanding when you told McCall.”

“Are you?” Owen raises a sceptical eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“Well -” George tries to think back - was he really? He knows they’d spoken about it, is sure he’d’ve been as unhappy as Owen is claiming to be with a ‘good, thanks’ text, but he can’t imagine he pressed this hard. He can’t imagine he would have felt entitled to, in the way Owen so clearly is now.

“Georgie! Focus!” Owen interrupts. “About 10 hours ago, you had a meeting. How did it go?”

George smiles at Owen, amused by his exaggerated patience, his very real exasperation. “Good, thanks,” he tells him, laughing when Owen just glares. “No, it was okay,” he goes on. “He was pretty surprised, but when he gathered himself he was good about offering support. It was a bit -” George pulls a face. “You know how I feel about telling people -”

Owen nods. He’d been subject to George’s long rant about the awkwardness and seriousness of it just the night before, after all.

“- so him being surprised didn’t really help that. But by the end he was fine, and I do think he’ll stay that way.”

“You said he was good, about the Stonewall stuff.”

“Yeah,” George nods. “By the end he was asking about you - checking you were treating me right,” George teases.

“Yeah? And what’d you tell him? How badly I treat you?”

“Well not being at home with me every night is pretty terrible -”

“No arguments here,” Owen interrupts.

“- but no. I told him I was pretty sure - you know, that we’re gonna last,” George smiles at Owen.

“Georgie,” Owen sighs - George aches with the desire to kiss him, is pretty sure Owen is thinking the same. 

“How about his ideas for the club?” Owen moves them on. “Is _he_ gonna last, for the team?” he jokes, eyes sparkling.

It just makes George want to kiss him more. Instead, he snorts. “I guess that’s a question for Tom, hm?” he proposes. “But - yeah, he seems pretty solid, and I like that he’s listening to us, talking to us, not getting all wrapped up with the coaches and the board.”

Owen nods agreement.

“I don’t think it’s going to be an instant turnaround, but the boys are excited to play for him, and that means a lot.”

“So he probably _is_ the one for them, then?” Owen jokes.

George shakes his head, smiling back. “I don’t know, Ben and Jonny were apparently already conspiring to chuck him out if our meeting hadn’t gone well this morning!”

“Really?” Owen asks, laughing. 

“Who can tell, with those two?” George answers, making Owen laugh even harder. “But it was nice of them to say, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “They’re good lads.”

George nods, smiling fondly. “I like the way Geordie’s talking, anyway,” he tells Owen. “I don’t think it’s going to be an instant turnaround, we’re in for a season of hard work - just hope the lads stay this excited about the idea of working through it.”

Owen hums agreement. “Must be good to have that spirit back, too, after losing Matt to the players.”

“We lost Matt to himself,” George defends, sharp.

“Hey, no arguments here,” Owen holds up his hands. “Just can’t imagine how that must feel in the squad.”

“Yeah,” George grimaces. “It’s definitely good to have that bit of unity back,” he concedes. “How long have you had Mark McCall, anyway?”

“Oh, forever,” Owen replies, then actually thinks about it. “Getting on for eight years now, I think,” he tells George.

“Wow,” George nods slowly. “Can’t imagine how that must feel,” he jokes, smirking.

“It’s pretty good,” Owen laughs. “Think it speaks for itself, to be honest.”

“Yeah yeah,” George rolls his eyes. “Don’t go getting too settled, maybe we’ll lure him away.”

“Maybe,” Owen just laughs, again. “Maybe that’d finally be a headline big enough to knock me off the top rugby news spot!”

“I can’t believe we haven’t already done it, to be fair,” George laughs. “We did try - I did try, for you.”

“And I appreciate that, Georgie,” Owen says seriously. “But you’ll have to try harder - maybe _you_ could come out, that might do it!”

“What, and then to get my story off the front pages we’ll tell the world about us?” George escalates in turn.

Owen nods, eager. “And then no one will be interested in us as individuals, absolutely! It’s foolproof!”

“Or foolish,” George rolls his eyes, chuckling. “How’re you doing with the first run of stories, anyway?”

Owen shrugs a shoulder. “Okay,” he claims. “It’s a bit annoying to have the lads constantly yelling headlines at me, random quotes, but it’s okay. Nothing I didn’t expect, nothing I can’t handle.”

George thinks Owen might be trying to convince himself, but as long as it works he’s not going to complain. “I’m sure if you talked to Brad, or Mark, they’d get the lads to stop?” he suggests. 

Owen gives him a blank stare.

“Or you could try Jamie, if you don’t want to make it some formal thing,” George goes on, unfazed. He couldn’t exactly judge Owen for that, after all. 

Owen pulls a face. “Jinx is one of the worst,” he admits, seeming to forget the tough image he’s meant to be projecting.

“He wouldn’t be if he knew it was actually bothering you.”

Owen sighs, shrugs in acceptance. “He’s not - he picks nice bits, at least, encouraging stuff for all it’s annoying. Some of the others like all the lines about scandal and shock - mostly to joke about how long they’ve known.”

George wrinkles his nose. “Charming,” he says. “And Jamie carrying on must only be encouraging them.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Owen shakes his head, seeming to remember his earlier claims.

“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” George says lightly. “ _I_ can speak to Jinx, if you want.”

“Nah - it’s my mess, I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Hardly a mess, love,” George reminds him gently. But he can see Owen getting defencive, so reaches for a change of topic. “How’re the public? St Albans still behaving?”

“Definitely get a few more looks at Tesco than I used to. But the only ones who actually come up to me are always really nice, it’s - the things they say are the kind of thing I did it for, you know?”

“So people would be nice to you in public?” George plays dumb, hoping to get Owen dwelling on the good side.

Owen laughs. “You know what I mean. There was a kid, today - I’ve coached a session or two at his club, seen him looking at me in public before. He came right up and chatted about the game, told me he’d told his parents he was gay because of me, that I’d changed his life. Then he just ran off!”

George laughs, imagining Owen’s no doubt bewildered expression at that. “It’s worth it, then?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods, confident. “Yeah, it’s worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and that you and yours are safe and well <3 As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments! I seriously appreciate your comments so much, I really don't think I'd be able to complete such a big work without all of your very kind words and support.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The matches relevant to this chapter were:  
> Leicester Tigers 49 - 33 Newcastle Falcons (HT: 40-19)  
> Saracens 44 - 23 Bristol Bears (HT: 13-18)

George is buzzing after his match that Saturday - what a game it had been, and at home too! The roars of the crowd are still coursing under his skin, lightening his step. Scoring nearly 50 points, never mind that they’d conceded over 30; beating Falcons at home, after the mess of a match that fixture had been at the end of last season; scoring the try he had after the week before, a week full of meetings, full of gossip and distractions, _winning_ a match like that… There are still issues, that had been clear enough to see, but George feels faith in this new era, in his clubmates - they can pull through.

George pulls out his phone, sees that Owen has won, too, convincingly so. He’d never expected anything else despite Bears’ surprise win over Bath last week, but it still makes him grin. Given the current climate in the club George thinks it best he joins the celebrations after the match, if only for an hour or so. He doubts Owen will mind, doubts he can have much to say after such a clear victory.

 _going out with the lads, just for the meal before drinks_ , George sends Owen. _call later?_

 _Can I come up?_ Owen replies, near instantaneously.

George reads the message, rereads it.

 _what happened?_ he sends Owen, then hurries to an unoccupied physio room and closes himself off to call Owen, unable to handle waiting for a reply.

Owen picks up almost immediately.

“Of course you can come up,” George says, over Owen’s greeting. “You don’t need to ask - that was the point of the key, remember? But Owen - what _happened_?”

“I can’t just want to see you?” Owen attempts.

“Owen.”

Owen heaves a sigh down the line. “You saw the scores?” he asks, doesn’t wait for a reply. “We were losing until Smith got red carded, would have lost without it.” He admits bluntly. George blinks in shock. “He was hitting hard from the off - got me a fair few times.”

“Was he targeting you?” George asks, voice tight.

“I don’t know,” Owen admits. “Felt like it, a bit. But I wasn’t the only one who got hit,” he hurries on. “It’s only I’ve twinged my thigh again, physio already said I’m out next week - no point in risking it at this stage in the season. I’m on strict rest for a few days, thought I’d come up to make the most out of it as much as anything.”

“Of course,” George says softly. He doesn’t believe that there’s nothing more to it than Owen wanting to make the most of his rest, not with the order in which he’d told the account of the day. But the phone probably isn’t the place to push, and George is hardly going to complain about Owen wanting to come up.

“I’ll drive up tonight?”

“You don’t have to ask,” George reminds him. “But yeah, I’d like that. “I’ll -” he thinks. “I’ll still go out with the lads, yeah? Shouldn’t be long, just to eat - hopefully I’ll be back by the time you get in.”

“Yeah, of course,” Owen agrees. “It’s an important time for you guys - congrats on your win, by the way.”

“Thanks,” George grins, feeling some of the excitement from before returning.

“I’ll eat at a service station or whatever,” Owen goes on.

George makes a disgruntled sound. “You’re welcome to whatever’s in the kitchen,” George tells him. “I could do with going shopping, but there should be enough to chuck together a meal.”

“Anything’d be better than the services,” Owen replies, George hearing the smile in it - the first time he’s heard one all conversation. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Soon,” George bids. “Drive safe.”

Kyle is walking past when George slips out of the physio room. “Alright there?” he asks, doing a double take.

“Yeah, nothing -” George waves his phone in explanation. “Just calling my partner.”

Kyle glances along the empty hallway. “They didn’t lose?” he asks, voice low.

George laughs. “Of course not,” he assures Kyle, amused that Kyle finds the idea as unlikely as he had. “Sounds like it was closer than they’d’ve liked though.”

“Oh no, did they concede a try?” Kyle asks, mocking.

“More than one!” George tells him, playing up his shock. He’s still worried about Owen, but only on a personal level - it’d take far more than one off game to make him worry about Saracens.

“Having a nice little mother’s meeting, lads?” Joe asks, coming from behind George to join them. He’d been watching in the stands today, must only just have made his way to the changing rooms.

“Just discussing Sarries’ efforts,” Kyle tells Joe, easy.

George can’t believe he’s having this conversation, here, at Welford Road. He glances at the open door of the dressing room. 

“Yeah - I heard about the high tackle,” Joe tells George, voice lowered. “Faz alright?”

It could be an innocent conversation, standard gossip, but Joe and Kyle both know.

“Smith got red carded for tackling Owen?” George asks, sighing when Joe nods. “He didn’t quite mention that.” Owen had said that Smith had been red carded, that he’d taken a few hits. He hadn’t said that he’d taken _the_ hit.

“You talked to him already?” Joe sounds surprised. 

A group of players spill out of the open door of the changing room, and George shakes his head at Joe and Kyle as they walk past. They're too absorbed in their own conversation to pay attention to the three of them beyond a nod, but it brings the very real risk of their surroundings home. The conversation is reckless to the point of foolishness, and George can’t continue it any longer. Talking about his anonymous partner is one thing, talking about Saracens is one thing, talking directly about Owen is quite another.

George starts walking back to the changing room, Kyle and Joe trailing him.

“You coming out for drinks tonight?” George asks.

“Of course!” Kyle grins, going with it easily. 

Joe is still frowning in apparent concern, but George can’t do much about that now. “Yeah,” Joe answers. “Is a win like this enough to get you coming along?”

George raises a hand to his chest as if offended. “I take team bonding very seriously,” he assures them, as they enter the changing room. Kyle just laughs, peeling off as Joe follows George to his stall. “I’m just gonna do the meal,” George tells Joe. He’s speaking louder than they were in the corridor, but with the surrounding chaos it almost feels more private. “My partner’s coming up, so I’ll duck out before drinks.”

George startles as someone drapes themselves over his shoulders. “As if you wouldn’t have anyway,” Ben says in his ear - so much for the conversation being private. 

“Piss off or I won’t come at all,” George tells Ben, shaking him off.

“You were just saying how seriously you take team bonding!” Joe laughs, not a sound George believes.

Joe’s still concerned, that much is clear, but George doesn’t know what he can do. He’d like to reassure Joe, but he can’t talk about his partner’s injury, especially in front of Ben, without sparking so many more questions than he wants to answer. And he can’t talk about Owen and get around it that way, because it’s barely half an hour after the match, how would he know how Owen is?

“Sounds like Joey’s jealous,” Ben picks up on the forced laugh. “You shouldn’t neglect your club for your partner this way, really - we’ve got your brother, we’re family!”

“You said yourself I wouldn’t’ve come anyway,” George rebuts, harsher than he means to. He’s still worried about Owen, wants to assure Joe there’s nothing serious, and having Ben criticising him for picking Owen over his club without even knowing that he’s dating a rival, a member of their opposition, that he’s been discussing private club affairs with someone who wants to beat them - it’s hitting too close to home.

Ben looks between the two of them, eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s -”

“Lenny!” 

It’s Kyle calling across the changing room, and George has never been happier to hear his voice.

“Lenny, c’mere!” Kyle calls again.

“My presence is needed,” Ben quirks a grin at the two of them. “Try to resolve your sibling drama before it fucks with our team meal, yeah?” he claps both of them on the shoulder and disappears.

“Have we got sibling drama?” George half laughs, turning to Joe, aware of curious eyes on them after Ben’s pronouncement.

“I’m just worried,” Joe says, shaking his head.

George reaches out to take his own hold of Joe’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he tells him. “Nothing big, I just can’t -” he gestures to their surroundings, a gesture hopefully loose enough to escape outside understanding.

“I get it,” Joe accepts, eyes darting to players who immediately look away. “Just - text me, yeah? Later? Let me know everything’s alright.”

~

“Honey, I’m home,” George calls sarcastically as he opens the front door, having passed Owen’s car on the way in.

“Kitchen,” Owen yells back, and George makes his way through.

He stops dead in the doorway. Owen is sat at his counter, eating his food, and he’s wearing one of George’s Tigers training jumper. They’ve not seen each other in three weeks, near enough, and he’s _here_.

Owen glances down at himself as George stares. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t think to bring anything warm.”

George could tell Owen that it’s fine, that he doesn’t mind. Instead he chooses to take the few remaining steps to Owen’s side, to lean down and kiss him in a way that shows him.

Owen is at home here, in George’s house, in George’s life. He feels comfortable letting himself in, cooking for himself, even taking George’s clothes. It’s everything George could have dreamed of, the natural domesticity he’s been craving for years. It’s not all easy, not by a long shot, neither of their lives individually or together, but George can’t imagine a day where he could see this and not think it all worth it.

“Hello to you too,” Owen says, when George finally pulls away - as if he hasn’t been an equal participant in that kiss, as if he hadn’t responded with just as much love, just as much desire, as George had brought. “Wearing your kit?” Owen asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that.”

“It’s not -“ George checks himself. “It wasn’t just that,” he tells Owen.

Owen raises the other eyebrow, expectant.

“It’s just - you.”

Owen smiles, draws George in for another kiss. “You too,” he tells him. “But can I finish my food now?”

George laughs, kissing him on the temple. “Go on,” he grants, sinking into the seat next to Owen.

“Heard you scored a try,” Owen prompts, tucking in.

George smiles. “Yeah, first minute - it was a bit ridiculous,” he tells Owen, going on to recount the match while Owen eats. Owen’s a good listener, making thoughtful noises in the right places, impressed ones in others. He doesn’t offer much feedback - George is covering that well enough for the two of them - but what he does is insightful, angles George hasn’t yet thought of.

“How was your game?” George asks, tentative, when Owen has finished.

Owen sighs, lowering his forehead to George’s shoulder for a few exaggerated bangs of his head.

George laughs. “That good, hm?” he asks, stroking gently across the back of Owen’s head.

Owen sighs again. “Let’s go to the lounge.”

George goes along with the move easily, wrapping an arm around Owen as he huddles into George’s side.

Owen takes a deep breath before beginning. “It was a mess,” he chooses. “I don’t know what we were doing -”

“- I know that feeling,” George cuts in, can’t not.

Owen laughs, turning to face George a little more. “Yeah, I’m not sure it was quite that bad,” he teases, “But it was a wreck, the first half. And George Smith - he was so good. Beyond making massive hits he was such a pain everywhere, we just couldn’t compete.”

“But you did,” George reminds him. “You won.”

Owen shakes his head. “Winning because someone got sent off isn’t the same.”

And George understands the sentiment, but - “It looks the same on the league table,” he tells Owen.

Owen accepts this ruefully. “I guess. Doesn’t stop me aching like we lost, though,” he quirks a smile.

George makes a sympathetic sound. “What hurts?”

“Thigh,” Owen indicates. “Hip. Chest and shoulder, where he clattered me.”

George trails his fingers over the spots Owen indicates - they’re not exactly in a position for him to kiss them better now, but he’ll remember for later.

“Smith?” George says - passive, encouraging, no more.

“Yeah,” Owen releases a sigh. “Yeah. It felt - it felt like he was coming for me, you know how it is, on the pitch?”

George certainly does, so he nods.

“It felt like that, felt like every time I got the ball he was only a second away, coming to knock me down. He wouldn’t let me up easy, either, had to make a whole thing of it. And I know that happens in the game anyway,” Owen hurries on, as if George had made any move to interrupt him. “That we - fly halves, sure, but just players - get targeted. But it _did_ feel like more, did feel like there was something in it. He was in England camp barely two seconds ago, he trained us - and he didn’t seem to hate me so much then. And - he didn’t shake my hand," Owen says finally, quiet. "He came out, despite the red, did the circuit - but he turned away from me, I swear he did.”

George doesn’t say anything, unsure if Owen has got it all out.

“He was standoffish at the season launch,” Owen shakes his head. “I told myself it was nothing, but - I guess I was wrong. All of this, it’s - I should’ve expected it,” he mutters. “Should’ve known, shouldn’t be _surprised_.”

 _Shouldn’t be hurt_ , George hears.

“That’s bullshit,” George tells him, addressing the unspoken words more than the ones that had actually made it out of Owen’s mouth. “You did know something like this could happen, we talked about it over the summer - but you still get to react. You still get to feel it, Owen, much as you might not want to,” George says, squeezing his hand. 

Owen doesn’t say anything, just lifts George’s fingers to his mouth and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

“It’s - I’m sorry,” George goes on, floundering a little. “I’m sorry that people are -” he waves a hand, knowing Owen knows well enough what people are like. “They’re idiots, _he’s_ an idiot, and you’re worth more than the lot of them put together.”

“You have to say that,” Owen dismisses, but he’s smiling.

George leans in for a brief kiss, warm and close. He can’t erase the actions of homophobes, the way the knowledge of their sentiments sits under the skin - but he can hope to replace it. Owen hums into the kiss, pleased.

“Oh!” Owen says, when they part. “I brought you something,” Owen drops George’s hand in order to fish in his pocket, comes out with a set of keys. He drops them in George’s hand. “Here! I got you a set made a couple of weeks ago - should have thought about it sooner, really. You’re welcome whenever, you know that, yeah?”

George closes his hand around the metal of the keys, warmed from their time in Owen’s pocket. He’d thought Owen had overreacted, when George had given him his keys. It was only a gesture confirming what they both already knew, after all. But now - now he thinks he understands.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Owen drops his head to George’s shoulder, and George tightens his hold.

~

George wakes slowly the next morning, warm in Owen’s embrace. He hums, happily, and presses himself into Owen as best he can.

“Morning Georgie,” Owen says, hushed.

“Knew you’d be awake,” George quirks a smile, not bothering to open his eyes. “How’s your thigh?” George had done his best to kiss it better last night, and a lot more besides.

Owen stretches, movement brushing against George’s cock in a way that makes his hips twitch. He makes a dissatisfied grunt, does it again. “Yeah, still bad,” he says - as if George can’t hear the undercurrent of warm humour, can’t tell that Owen knows exactly what he’s doing, moving like that. 

“You mean I didn’t manage to kiss it better last night?” George finally opens his eyes, blinking at Owen as if in surprise. 

“Guess you’ll have to try harder,” Owen invites.

“I can do that,” George grins, pushing himself up.

“No,” Owen interrupts, wrapping a second arm around George to hold him close. “More cuddles first,” he requests.

“Of course, love,” George tells him, stretching up just enough to kiss Owen, slow and warm.

George had almost forgotten, before he saw Owen last night, just how long it had been since they spent time together. With the flurry of activity around Kyle moving out, the season start, the drama of O’Connor’s sacking, the rollercoaster of anticipation and reaction to Owen’s first match, and the two of them talking each of those through nearly every night, it had nearly fallen by the wayside. Then he’d seen Owen, last night, and all that missing, all those moments of longing to kiss him, to touch him, had hit home at once.

They’re still there for each other through those video calls, that almost daily contact, and that’s not something George will ever take for granted. For years Owen has been the person George can be most honest with, and the person he most wants to be honest with, the one he wants to speak to when things get hard. When they’d got together all those months ago the few remaining limits between them had vanished, and now George can go to Owen about anything, can speak to him about whatever he likes, whenever he likes - as long as they’re both out of training. Being able to rely on Owen has added stability to his life, security. 

And so does having Owen warm beside him, his fingers trailing along George’s skin, breath stirring George’s hair. He’d missed that more than he can say, more than he thinks he’d even realised until right now. These mornings have always been something Owen basks in, and now George thinks he’s starting to understand why. He loves them too, of course, always has, despite the way he occasionally gets restless - but now he thinks he understands just what it is about them that Owen feeds off. They’ve shared communication despite the distance, there isn’t anything George finds himself restless to say. Instead, after weeks without it, George can’t think of anything he needs more than Owen, the warmth and the solidity of his presence. He can’t think of anything that would make a better morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As it is a Bank Holiday weekend again the UK, and I have no aside in this 'verse due to post as a bonus fic, I'm opening prompts up again on my [my rugby tumblr](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com)! I've reblogged a [prompt list](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/618913734403014656/prompts-for-writing), and prompts will be open until midnight BST on Sunday, and posted by the end of the week. 
> 
> You can also find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and my [primary tumblr](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com), I'd love to hear from you in the comments or anywhere else! I hope you're all well!


	13. Chapter 13

By silent agreement George and Owen didn’t turn on the TV that Sunday, hardly glanced at their phones. They recreated, as close as they could, the seclusion of their holiday in Italy, safe in George’s home. It was a lovely day, a peaceful day, one George knows he will treasure through the weeks of separation that once again loom ahead of them. But Owen is staying for now, George reminds himself. He’d got up with George so they could eat breakfast together before George had to go to work, and he’ll be there when George gets home.

George is smiling at the thought as he arrives for training, greets the lads cheerfully.

“Hey, here’s a man who might know!” Ben gestures at George.

“Good morning to you too Lenny,” George raises an eyebrow. “I had a lovely Sunday, thanks for asking.”

“D’you see about the Sarries match, George Smith getting a red for that high tackle on Faz?” Jonny asks, not engaging with George’s greeting.

George takes in the room - Ben and Jonny seem to be facing off with Mike Fitzgerald and Gareth Owen, Tom watching over them. The rest of the lads are keeping their heads down, avoiding getting involved - it’s an argument well underway, then. George catches Joe’s eye, shares a quick moment of incredulity.

“What about it?” he asks, wary.

“Lot of lads trying to say it was homophobic,” Mike Fitzgerald scoffs. “I’m not gonna say it was the greatest tackle of all time, but -”

“The guy was after Faz the whole match,” Tom points out, holding up his hands. “I’m not going to say why, no one knows that other than him - it’s not completely baseless, is all.”

“Well what did Faz think?” Ben asks, turning to George.

George looks at Ben, considers his options. “What, because I live in his head?”

It sparks a round of laughter, distraction, just as George had wanted. “What are the RFU saying?” he asks, unable to resist. “What’s the citing for?”

“Just a normal red,” Jonny tells him, looking dissatisfied. 

“Because they’re not stupid, unlike the media,” Gareth Owen puts in.

“Yeah, they’re not dumb enough to fall for this victimhood, poor Farrell shit! Sarries’d’ve lost without Smith being sent off and they know it - of course other clubs want to get him banned as long as possible. Trying to say Smith’s homophobic is a bit far,” Mike shakes his head. “What, just ‘cause Faz is gay means he can’t get tackled any more, is that it?”

“Even if Smith was targetting him - he’s the fly half!” Gareth agrees. “It’s good tactical sense, not homophobia.”

George turns his back on the conversation, opening his kitbag.

“Playing the victim,” Mike scoffs. “It’s pathetic.”

George clenches his jaw as he switches shirts - he doesn’t want to get involved, but he doesn’t want to let that image of Owen sit either.

“Has Faz actually said anything?” Tom asks mildly, before George can step in, before he has to. “Have he or Saracens asked the RFU to treat it as homophobia?”

“No, they haven’t,” Jonny provides. “Faz hasn’t said anything since the match, it's ridiculous to call that playing victim!”

“Faz doesn’t actually control what the media write,” Ben supports Jonny. “If he did they’d probably never write about him at all.”

Ben laughs, everyone laughs, and George works his jaw as Tom moves the conversation on.

“Fordy,” comes a call, almost as soon as George has got his feet into his training boots - George looks up and Joe’s at the door, jerks his head to summon him.

George trots over, happy to have the excuse to leave the changing room behind.

“Alright?” he asks.

Joe shrugs a shoulder, looks back at the room they’re walking away from. “Thought you might want to get away, is all,” he says, once they’re a good distance away.

“Yeah, thanks,” George sighs heavily. “Though I don’t want them talking shit about Owen behind my back either,” he adds, scowling.

“Ah, I think they’ve got it out - if not Jonny’ll shut them up, you know he will.”

“So long as he doesn’t actually start a fight,” George quirks a weak smile - he’d appreciated Jonny’s passion in Owen’s defence, but that doesn’t mean it’s the best for the club.

Joe shrugs, unconcerned, as they step onto the pitch. He glances around, a look George copies - no players in sight, coaches at the other end of the pitch. “So - _does_ Owen think Smith was targetting him? That it was homophobic?”

George quirks a smile at the repetition of the question. “He's not sure, but - yeah,” he admits. “Smith wouldn’t shake his hand after, and apparently he was off with him at the season launch thing too. It’s -” George pulls a face. “He’s a bit shaken by it, to be honest.”

Joe makes a sympathetic sound and George hurries on - he’s not sure he should have mentioned that, not sure Owen would have wanted him to.

“But he won’t say anything, to the RFU, probably not even to Sarries - there’s no way to prove it,” George explains, defeated. They haven’t directly had a conversation about Smith since the Saturday evening, but if Owen had been thinking of saying something he would have told George. George doesn’t think Owen had seen that the media have apparently been pushing for it, but it doesn’t change the basic problem: one player’s word against another is never much of a case. 

“But he’s up here for - how long?” Joe asks.

George hadn’t told Joe in his text because he hadn’t known, still doesn’t know. He shrugs. 

“That’s good, though,” Joe coaxes, reaching out to cuff George on the shoulder.

George shrugs, biting down on a smile. “It’s a silver lining.”

~

When George gets home that afternoon he follows the sound of Owen’s voice to the lounge, finds him video calling his parents.

“But it’s not serious?” Andy is asking, when George gets close enough to hear. He hesitates on the threshold for a moment - he’d like to join, like to talk to Andy and Colleen face to face for the first time since the summer, but it suddenly feels rude, stepping in to Owen’s family time. He’s not sure he wants to go over Owen’s match again either, truthfully, after spending what felt like half the day at Tigers hearing about it.

Owen catches his eye and breaks into a smile. “Georgie!” he greets.

George smiles back, and crosses the threshold. “Hey, love,” he returns, resting a hand on the back of Owen’s neck and leaning in for a brief kiss.

Owen hums into it, happy, and George leaves his hand there as he settles on the arm of the sofa next to Owen.

“Hi, how’re you guys doing?” George goes on, looking at Andy and Colleen, now.

Andy is smiling at the two of them, and Colleen has an eyebrow raised, but George knows her well enough now to spot the amusement.

“Good,” Colleen answers for the both of them. “Gabe’s happy to be back at school, and it’s been nice to get a routine going again.”

George nods, understanding.

“But we’d only just got through to Owen - his thigh’s fine, yeah?” Andy asks George.

“Oi!” Owen protests.

“Yeah,” George tells him, not bothering to hide an amused smile. “Bit of rest and he should be fine for the week after next - doesn’t seem like he’s putting an overly brave face on it or anything.”

“You could have asked me,” Owen huffs.

“I did!” Andy reminds him. “You just thought George’s arrival was more important than answering, so I had to ask the second best source of information.”

George ducks his head to hide a smile, one that only widens when Owen swaps hands with his phone, bringing George more fully into shot, and rests his now free hand on George’s thigh. Owen wants him there, included, wants him to stay. 

“How are you, George?” Colleen asks. “It must be difficult at Leicester right now.”

George pulls a face. “It’s been challenging,” he admits. “But good, I think. I think we’re on the way to good.”

“Kyle behaving?” Andy asks. “Geordie been okay?”

“Yeah,” George tells him, almost surprised to be asked. Of course Andy and Colleen know that Kyle knows he’s bi, knows he and Owen are dating, Owen had messaged them the whole story while he was still at George’s. But he hadn’t even know they knew he’d told Geordie, certainly hadn’t expected to be asked about it.

“Good,” Andy smiles.

“Glad there are _some_ well behaved rugby players out there,” Colleen jokes.

“Hey!” George protests, in concert with both Owen and Andy, triggering a round of laughter. 

“Well, I’m not going to argue about Smith, if that’s who you meant” George says wryly.

“Yes, Smith,” Andy says darkly. “Do you think he was targeting you, Owen? Y’know, because -” he leaves it there, quite correctly assuming that the sentence doesn’t need an end.

Owen shrugs, uncomfortable. “I think so,” he admits. “Hard to tell, though.”

Andy hums. “You could say something to the RFU - you’re not the only one thinking it, you know that.”

“Yes, I did have to confront the media’s bullshit this morning, thanks for the reminder,” Owen scowls, immediately defensive.

“You’d have grounds,” Colleen says gently.

“He shouldn’t be able to get away with it, no one should be able to get away with it - it’s bullshit, Owen -”

“- and it’s my word against his!” Owen cuts his father off. “All Smith needs to say is ‘it wasn’t because he’s gay’ - which might be true, even. What can they do after that? Are the RFU going to sanction him anyway? Is that going to do anything for me, for us? All it’ll do is play into the stories about me coming out distracting Saracens, being the reason we played so poorly.”

George raises his eyebrows - he hadn’t heard about that, Tigers sticking to their original angle about Owen all day. “Who’s saying that?” he asks.

Owen snorts. “Everyone,” he tells George. “Everyone who’s running a story on Smith targeting me is running another story about how crap we were, how it’s all my fault for coming out.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” George says, intense, tightening his hand on the back of Owen’s neck.

Owen lets his head fall back into the hold, no longer looking at his parents at all. “I know,” he tells George.

George scans his face, nods. He believes him, believes Owen isn’t taking that responsibility on himself.

“Well said George,” Colleen nods firmly. “Owen, I think it’s worth considering putting a complaint in to the RFU -” she holds up a hand when Owen goes to cut her off. “All you can do is raise the question - if there’s something to be found they’ll find it, if not they won’t; simple as that.”

Owen is shaking his head before she’s halfway through, and from the day George has had he has to agree with him.

“It’s not that simple,” Owen tells his parents. “Firstly, they won’t find anything - he never said anything, there’s nothing anyone else could have heard, or mics could catch. Sure, he held me down after every tackle, but that doesn’t prove intent, and it won’t. And -” Owen’s face darkens “- if I made a complaint, if the RFU investigate him for homophobia - it’s not as simple as nothing found, nothing lost. It makes the story bigger, and I - I don’t think that’s helpful.”

Given what George has heard over the course of the day at Tigers, he’d have to agree. He might not like it, might want to rage as much as Andy clearly does - but he nods, rubs a thumb up and down the side of Owen’s neck.

“You agree, George?” Andy picks up, immediate.

George hesitates. What does he want Owen to know, about what Tigers have said? What would be helpful for Owen to know?

“Go on,” Owen prompts. “What is it, what are Tigers saying?” 

George should have known Owen would pick up on the hesitation. “Not much,” George assures him. “Tom’s still good at cutting lads off - and Jonny was on it today, too, not having any of it. It’s only a couple of guys.”

Colleen frowns. “What are they saying?” she asks.

George should have known better than to hope he could get out of it by stalling - Owen would never have let that slide even if his parents had.

“I bet I can guess,” Owen says, a rueful tilt to his mouth.

“There’s just a bit of sympathy for Smith. Players saying the media are overreacting, that the poor lad is having a hard time of it with people suggesting he might be homophobic,” George shrugs, trying to play it down.

“And that I’m playing the victim?” Owen adds.

George winces. Of course Owen would be able to guess that. “They weren’t saying it for long,” he assures Owen. “Jonny was quick to point out that you weren’t the one saying it was homophobic, that they had absolutely no grounds.”

“So now you see why I can’t go to the RFU,” Owen tells his parents.

Andy still looks dissatisfied. “You shouldn’t let what a few stupid rugby players - no offence to your Tigers, George -”

“None taken,” George assures him. 

“- You can’t let them make your decisions for you.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just a few stupid rugby players, is it?” Owen says. “It’s a few at Leicester, a few at Quins, a few in every team in the country - including all the amateur, the youth teams. If I put a complaint in, if I become that gay guy who can’t handle getting tackled, who thinks he’s above it - what happens in those clubs? What gets said? What do the queer guys in those clubs hear, what gets said to all those kids who’ve just come out because of me? Whatever happens to them - that’s on me.”

“It shouldn’t be,” George murmurs, though he understands what Owen is saying enough that he can’t, won’t, argue more.

Owen lets his head fall back so he can look George in the eye. “Part of the choice I made,” he says.

George feels the corner of his mouth turn down - and that’s another reason he’d never want to come out to the public, the press. Owen shouldn’t have to represent every member of their community, there shouldn’t be that immediate association in everyone’s mind between any gay players they might know and Owen - but there is, and there will be, until queerness in rugby is far more normalised than it is now. Maybe in a generation they’ll get there, but for now -

“I think we’re considering all of this very negatively,” Colleen says thoughtfully. “What if you bring it forward to the RFU and you do win? It would show those guys, the idiots George plays with at Leicester, that their behaviour, their homophobia, won’t be tolerated - surely that would be a good thing? The media are already on your side, who’s to say the RFU wouldn’t be too? They’ve done such good work so far.”

Owen snorts. “Sure, the media, the RFU - they’re on my side now, but this is the first real issue, the first problem.”

“You don’t think they’d back you?” Andy asks.

“It’s not that simple,” Owen shakes his head. “The people I’ve interacted with, yeah, I think they would, or I think they’d want to, but prosecuting a player for something he denies - and I think we all know he wouldn’t exactly stand there and go ‘yeah, I was coming for Faz because he’s gay, what of it?’ We don’t even know if that is why! Maybe it was tactics, maybe he hates me for something else, I don’t _know_ ,” Owen stresses.

George is perfectly happy to take Owen’s reading of the situation as truth, trusts his sense of things. Andy and Colleen clearly do too, but he’s not exactly wrong. 

“Prosecuting a player against their word is massive,” Owen goes on. “And the media, too, I think they’d be there if there was something clear cut, if someone clearly spoke out against me. But if I’m the one causing trouble…,” Owen trails off.

Colleen is still frowning. “You’re not causing trouble.” 

“Of course he’s not,” George steps in, taking a share of the work from Owen. “But I’ve - I’ve seen it in clubs before,” George admits. “Where the club promises to be a safe environment, talks a big game about bullying and discrimination - then when someone comes to them, when they might actually be expected to do something, it’s the person asking them to act making the issue,” George shrugs, at the three pairs of eyes that focus on him at that. It’s not a fun story, not one he’s told before, not one he plans to tell in any more detail than that. But it’s real, and he imagines he’s far from the only player to have had that experience - with that coach, never mind across the country. 

“The environment is safe,” George goes on, reciting what he was once told. “The player just needs to toughen up, learn to take a joke - banter’s part of the rugby culture, after all. They’d say the same about on-pitch targetting, too, easily - the RFU, clubs, media, all of that lot. They’d rather hide behind that, shift the blame, than accept that there might be fundamental issues they need to do something about. The media might not be so invested but they could easily turn, go from ‘there’s no place for homophobia in rugby’ to ‘there’s no place for complaining’. They love to speculate, love to stir up a story - going against Owen can do that just as well as going to bat for him.”

Owen nods agreement. “If it were something solid, I’d go for it. If he used a slur and someone else had heard, there was someone to back me up, I’d grab the opportunity. But this would be me making claims, my word against his when I’m not even sure. It’s not worth the risk, not worth worsening things. People are already saying I’m too much of a pansy to take a tackle -” George takes hold of Owen’s hand on his knee when he spits out the word. “And that’s just off what the media are saying, with nothing from me. There’s not a high enough chance of success to play anything but a defensive game here.”

Colleen is still frowning. “I don’t like it,” she says, blunt.

Owen laughs, bitter, the sound ripped out of him. “Me neither,” he admits.

George leans over and kisses the top of his head, pure instinct, squeezes his hand when Owen’s breath catches.

Owen squeezes back something fierce, but shakes his head at the dual look of concern on his parents’ faces. “It’s fine -”

“It’s not fine,” Andy asserts.

“No,” Owen admits. “But it’s something I knew could happen. I can deal with this - after the hearing it’ll all die down, anyway. Give it two games and the news cycle’ll’ve moved on, no one will remember this even happened.”

Apart from you, George thinks. Apart from us.

~

They bid goodbye to Owen’s parents and, once again, don’t talk about it. George tries to initiate, when Owen hangs up, asking him just how much of the media’s crap he had read.

“George,” Owen looks him dead in the eye. “You’ve heard about this all day at the club -”

“Not all day,” George interrupts.

“More than you wanted to, I bet?” Owen guesses, and George can’t exactly deny that. “So you’d heard enough about it all before you came home to my parents banging on, and god knows I’d seen more than I wanted to about it by the time they called - do you really want to go over it again?”

And on one hand, George doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. He’d paused on the threshold because he hadn’t wanted to get involved in the conversation, had known how it would go - and he’d entered anyway because it was a part of Owen’s life, and he signed up for that, good or bad. “If it’ll help you,” he says, stubbornly. 

“D’you know what’d _really_ help me? Distraction,” Owen grins, lascivious, shifting his hand up George’s thigh.

“Owen…,” George trails off, conflicted.

He doesn’t want to make Owen dwell on the negatives, of course he doesn’t, but he doesn’t want them buried and bottled up either.

“Georgie, please,” Owen looks at him, direct, all playful pretence dropped. “I got here yesterday, I have to leave tomorrow -”

George frowns, immediate - he hadn’t known that, Owen must have been told today.

“- I don’t want to waste this time being miserable,” he tells George. “When I think back on how we used the time we had together I don’t want it to be complaining - I want to be as close to you as I can get, I want to think back on it and remember the positives, and smile, when we’ve had to go another three weeks without a visit.”

George regards Owen steadily. Is he shying away from difficult things? Probably, yes. Can George blame him? Honestly, no.

“Well in that case,” George smirks, shifts off the arm of the sofa into Owen’s lap. “I’m all yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments! I hope you and yours are and remain safe and well.


	14. Chapter 14

George can hardly believe his luck when Owen is back at his the very next weekend. After a few days of rehab at Saracens’ Owen had gone with the team to their Saturday away match at Saints, then straight from there the short distance to George’s. George has a Sunday match against Wasps, more than close enough for the Leicester players to stay at home. They won’t see each other for long, but with Owen as near as Franklin’s Gardens, only half an hour away, and having no obligation to take the team bus - neither of them had been able to resist.

George startles as his front door opens, having only just become used to having the house back to himself.

“Hello?” Owen calls out, and George smiles.

“In the lounge,” he tells Owen, checking the time - only an hour after the match, Owen hadn’t hung around.

“Hi,” Owen repeats his greeting, grinning when he sees George laid out on the sofa. “Room for another?” he asks.

George looks down at how he’s sprawled, head propped up on the arm of the sofa, feet brushing the opposite arm, flat on his back with less than a foot of space either side of him. He looks up at Owen doubtfully, then moves to accommodate him, stopping when Owen takes hold of his shoulder.

“Nah, I think we’re good,” Owen tells him, guiding George to return to his position flat on his back. 

Owen slings a leg over George and levers himself into position to drop, full bodied, on top of him.

“Hi,” Owen says once again, tucking his head down onto George’s shoulder.

“Hi,” George returns, laughing as best he can under Owen’s weight. “You comfortable there?”

“Yep,” Owen confirms, bending his knees to hook an ankle around George’s, covering him from shoulder to toe.

George hums in contentment, wrapping his arms around Owen’s waist. They lie there for long moments as their breathes synchronise. George could ask Owen about the match but he’s loathe to disturb him, make him move his head from its nest on George’s shoulder.

In the end Owen is the one to break the silence.

“Not too heavy?” Owen checks, not moving.

George laughs. “Now you care?”

Owen shrugs. “Not really,” he claims.

“You can’t stay there forever,” George warns, “but you’re okay until it’s time for tea.”

Owen shakes his head, his hair brushing against George’s neck. “Don’t need to eat.”

“Well I’ve got a match tomorrow, so I do.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t actually think I can feed off this,” George tells Owen lightly, bringing a hand up to play with the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Try harder,” Owen suggests.

“Do you know what I think? I think this is sabotage,” George muses. “I think you want Wasps to win tomorrow. Have you got some bet going?”

“I can’t just have missed you?” Owen asks.

“It’s been three days.”

Owen doesn’t respond, just presses George close with the hand under his waist.

“I missed you too,” George admits. 

It’s not that, precisely. It has only been three days, after all, and they’ve spoken every one of them - but George has felt Owen’s absence. After their brief reunion the weekend before it’s been difficult to go back to only seeing Owen, not being able to touch him. The past three days were not long enough for George to get used to the inability to reach out, the inability to connect - though he’d gotten there over the three weeks prior.

Owen hums, satisfied. He pushes up from George’s chest, props himself up with a forearm across his sternum. “Hi,” he says, for the fourth time.

“Hello to you too,” George smiles, leaning in when Owen leans up, letting their lips brush soft and slow and sweet.

They kiss until George’s neck can’t take the strain any longer, then he drops his head back and Owen pushes himself up George’s chest, kisses him again, deeper.

They kiss as it turns from dusk to dark, George losing himself in the weight of Owen on top of him, the warmth of his skin as George smooths a hand along his spine beneath his shirt, the taste of his mouth. They’re broken apart by the growl of Owen’s stomach.

“You should eat,” Owen tells George, their lips still brushing.

George hums acknowledgement, pulling Owen back in for a final, languid kiss. “Yep,” he agrees.

“You can’t move,” Owen murmurs. “Trapped, mine.”

“Want to bet?” George returns, arching an eyebrow, ignoring the thrill he feels at the idea.

Owen only hums, not taking the challenge seriously, leaning in to kiss George again instead. It’s a good tactic, to be fair - George hardly wants to move when Owen is kissing him.

But eventually Owen pulls away, and George really does need to eat. He considers his actions as he runs soft fingers through Owen’s hair, moves his hand up to cup the back of his head protectively. That should be safe.

George twists his body, a quick movement, and for an instant Owen balances on the edge of the sofa, eyes widening, before gravity brings the two of them tumbling the short distance to the carpet.

“Georgie!” Owen protests, barely getting the word out around his laughter.

“Told you,” George hops to his feet, satisfied. He holds out a hand to pull Owen up.

“I should pull you right back down here,” Owen grumbles, taking the assistance.

“But I’m about to cook you tea,” George says, widening his eyes. “You want to eat, don’t you?”

“I guess,” Owen accepts. “Wanted to keep kissing you, too.”

“Sometimes life sucks like that,” George says, the reality of the words falling heavy despite his attempt at keeping his tone light.

Owen sighs, deliberately dramatic, in keeping with George's tone though his eyes have softened. “Sometimes it really does.”

~

George shakes his head as he makes his way from the pitch to the Wasps’ away dressing room - that match had been a mess. It had been a mess before Spencer had got a red card, only worse after that. In a way he’s proud of how his Tigers had played, how they’d fought for each other in such tough circumstances. But it’s still not a win, still only two points, not four, or even five. It’s not enough. 

From Geordan’s post match speech he clearly agrees, though George will admit to drifting on the details when he realises this. Geordan is largely addressing the portion of the lads who seem to celebrating two points after a first half red card as if they were a win, calling out their complacency. George doesn’t need that. Two points isn’t good enough for George, it’s not good enough for Geordie, and it shouldn’t be good enough for Tigers. They shouldn’t get in those positions in the first place, and they shouldn’t need positions like that to motivate them to play like that. They’d picked up in intensity after the red, found the intensity they should have had from the start. So why hadn’t they had it at the start, what can they do to get it? 

George sinks completely into his thoughts when Geordan wraps up, getting clean and changed on autopilot. He barely responds to Jonny, not ready to talk and knowing Jonny will understand that. He almost doesn’t look up when half the players flock to the door of the dressing room, is glad he did when he spots Eddie Jones at the heart of things, talking to Geordan. 

George smiles and nods in greeting when Eddie makes eye contact in a glance around the room - he hadn’t known Eddie was at the match, and now feels even worse about the mess they’d put on display. Bad enough that their opposition could see it, but the head coach of the country? It’s not exactly the show George would have wanted to put on. His feelings don’t change when Bondi, their primary social media guy, comes over to tell George that he’s won fan’s player of the match for the second match in a row, and would he do an interview?

George takes a moment to fix his hair before following Bondi to a private room, exchanging another nod with Eddie, deep in conversation with Jordan Olowofela, as he passes. George puts a positive spin on things for the camera, for the fans - and for their opposition. When he leaves the room he’s surprised to find Eddie in the corridor, talking to Manu. They’re finishing up, Eddie clapping Manu on the forearm with a laugh before turning to George as Manu returns to the changing room.

“Alright?” George asks, smiling in greeting.

“Yes, thank you George. I just wanted to have a quick word,” Eddie glances at the changing room door as Greg Bateman slips out. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” 

George blinks. There’s an England camp next week. Is it about that, is he - 

“You can use this room,” Bondi provides, poking his head out of the open doorway of the room where George had just done his interview.

“Thanks,” George says, retracing his steps back in, staying firmly the wrong side of the lighting set up. He bites his lip as Eddie and Bondi exchange pleasantries. 

The last time Eddie had deliberately called George out to talk to had been to tell him he was being dropped from the match day squad in South Africa.

Finally Bondi closes the door on them, and Eddie turns to George. “Sorry to keep you from the locker room debrief,” he says.

“It’s fine - what can I do for you?” George asks, unwilling and unable to beat around the bush.

“First of all, I wanted to say how well you played today. It was obviously a tough match, but you shone through that.”

“Thank you,” George acknowledges. “It wasn’t the win, but -”

“It might not have been the best team performance, but you still played well,” Eddie assures him. “It’s good to see you getting close to your best again.”

George returns Eddie’s warm smile. That’s nice to hear, but not something they needed a closed door for. 

“Now, this will go out to the squad and press in the upcoming week,” Eddie goes on, “but I’ve managed to secure John Mitchell as our defence coach going forwards.”

“That’s great,” George says, unsure why Eddie is telling him this. 

“We’ll be having a series of meetings before the Bristol camp next week, and I wanted to check in with you before I disclose your sexual orientation to him.”

“Oh,” George says. He hadn’t even thought about that. When it had been announced Paul Gustard was leaving George had been hyper aware that he was taking his knowledge of George’s sexuality with him to Harlequins, but he hadn’t thought of the other end, of his replacement. He almost forgets that the coaches know, truth be told, the topic never coming up. “Yeah, I - yeah, that’s fine. It’d be weirder to have him out of step with everyone else,” he acknowledges.

“Thank you,” Eddie nods. “I’ve known John for years, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” George says. What else can he say? He knows of Mitchell, but no more than that. He just has to put his trust in him, and in Eddie, that him knowing won’t change anything. It hadn’t with the other coaches, but then Owen had been the centre of attention - it feels different, now, when it’s only George Mitchell will be told about.

“Owen’s situation has obviously changed a fair bit from when we last discussed all this -”

George laughs, can’t help it. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Just a bit.”

Eddie smiles in acknowledgement. “As we’re here I thought I’d take the chance to see how things are with you, if anything’s changed on your end?”

George casts his mind back to what he’d told Eddie that day, practically trembling with nerves at Owen’s side. “I’m still not planning on telling the squad,” he tells Eddie. “Ben and Jonny know I’m bi - Lenny knew back then, actually, so that’s not actually so different.”

“Not Manu?” Eddie asks.

George shakes his head. Manu is still exclusively referring to George’s partner as his girlfriend, he hasn’t picked up on it at all. “Not Leicester,” he answers Eddie’s implied question. “My head coach knows, but I don’t know if that’s relevant. I’m not planning on anything changing, on telling England or anyone else.” 

He doesn’t want to tell Eddie what he’s doing with Leicester, doesn’t want to tell Eddie that he’s dating a guy. But that’s not strictly true - there’s a part of him that does want to, a small part that almost wants to show some kind of progress. Owen has changed things so much in the last six months, has changed the rugby world. George is, essentially, doing nothing. But the urge to tell Eddie is small, minuscule, compared to the defensive instincts screaming at him to keep as much information as possible to himself, to not risk Eddie thinking he’s going to be stirring up trouble. 

George isn’t even going to mention his partner in camp, he’d decided that back in August, so it’s not like it’s relevant. With Owen there it feels too close to home, and he doesn’t want the other players asking questions he has to talk around in a way they could notice. In Leicester it’s fine, a risk he’s willing to take to be able to talk about Owen in his everyday life, a price he’s willing to pay. In England the risk is greater and the cost smaller, with limited camp time and an near all-consuming rugby focus throughout that time. If he gets backed into disclosure in Leicester, if the gender of his partner or the fact that he refuses to address it is made unavoidably clear, then that’s it - Leicester is where it stays contained, at least for a season or so. With England it would be completely different, anything the national squad knows becoming free gossip for the entire English rugby community. It wouldn’t necessarily be the case, depending on who found out, and how - but it could be. That risk isn’t one he’s willing to take.

“That’s fine, that’s good,” Eddie smiles genially, pulling George out of his thoughts. “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page, that you’re still comfortable with the way things are.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” George smiles, trying not to laugh at the idea of any aspect of being queer in a rugby team ever truly feeling comfortable. It’s more comfortable than it was, at Leicester, and with Owen at England, everyone knowing about his sexuality, George can relax a little further too, with any habitual homophobia softened by that. But it’s still a long way from comfortable.

“I’ll let you get back to your team now, unless there’s anything you’d like to say?” Eddie steps towards the door but keeps his eyes on George, patient.

“No,” George decides. “Thanks, though, I - really,” he says. Eddie’s consideration is so much more than he ever could have expected.

Eddie shakes his head, dismissing George’s gratitude. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, as he steps out into the corridor.

George bites down on a grin, unreasonably pleased to have the confirmation early. He’s in England camp! He figures it would have been clear enough by now if he hadn’t been, or if he’d been teetering on the edge, but it’s still a thrill, still a relief, to have it confirmed. “I’ll see you next week,” he echoes, before going to rejoin his club.

~

Not even two hours later it’s George’s turn to come home to his partner after a match, going from opening the door to wrapped up in a hug in barely thirty seconds.

George exhales, relaxing the weight of his head onto Owen’s shoulder. He could get used to this.

“That was a mess,” he says wryly, stepping away from Owen. 

“I saw,” Owen agrees. “Ordered us takeaway, should be here in about 15 minutes.”

“I love you,” George sighs, bringing Owen in for a kiss. 

He really, really, could get used to this. If he were to have the chance, which he won’t, he reminds himself. 

“You want to go over the game?” Owen asks, taking George by the hand and walking him to the lounge.

“Just until the food arrives,” George decides. He wants to talk about it, yes, doesn’t think he’ll settle until he does, but he doesn’t want it to take over the evening, their last evening together before Owen goes back down to Saint Albans.

Time flies as they pick through the match, George dismissing Owen’s praise of his performance. 

He’d been picked for fan’s player of the match again, sure - a fact he’s glad Owen doesn’t know he has supporting him - but that doesn’t mean anything. If he can’t get the team to flow, what’s the use? If the team aren’t playing well it doesn’t matter what one person does.

The doorbell rings, sooner than George would have thought.

“Right, you were brilliant, we’re leaving it there,” Owen insists, resting a hand on George’s knee to help push himself to stand.

“I’ll get it,” George cuts in, as Owen heads to the door.

Owen blinks. “Right,” he shakes himself. “Sorry, yeah.”

George ignores the irrational twinge of guilt as he collects the food - it’s his house, some of the local delivery guys know it. Owen Farrell answering the door could only raise eyebrows. It wouldn’t do much more, George realises, and he’d intervened out of instinct before he’d really considered it, but he still doesn’t regret the move. George puts those thoughts out of his mind as he brings the food in to the kitchen, where Owen has set them places side by side. George starts to get the food out, grinning at Owen as he realises he’s ordered all of George’s favourites.

“Alright?” Owen asks, catching the grin.

“Perfect,” George tells him. “Thank you,” he adds, leaning forwards to drop a quick kiss on his cheek before settling in to eat.

“It’s nothing,” Owen dismisses.

George shrugs. “Yeah,” but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate it. Maybe if they lived together something like this would be less important, more commonplace. But they don’t, and George is touched by the thought. 

“Eddie wanted to chat after the match,” George tells Owen as they dig in. “Did you see him at yours - he came, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “Or I heard he did, on the group chat. Didn’t talk to him myself. What did he want?”

He seems cautious, and George can’t blame him - it’s not normally a good sign, hearing from your head coach in the lead up to camp. 

“Said they’ve closed the deal on John Mitchell for defence coach, he’ll be there for the Bristol camp - said he’d see me there,” George smirks at Owen, satisfied.

Owen just rolls his eyes at him. “Of course,” he scoffs, though he’s smiling. “You’ve played so well this year, it’s not like there was a question.”

George arches an eyebrow - he’s played two good games, that’s more than he deserves. “Was a bit worried when he called me in though,” George admits.

Owen frowns. “Why _did_ he tell you about Mitchell?”

“So he could check it was okay to tell him I was bi.”

“Oh. Makes sense,” Owen concedes. “What did you tell him?”

George grimaces. “I told him yeah. It’d be weirder if he was the only top coach not to know, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Owen acknowledges. “You don’t look -” he gestures at the frown that George can feel remains on his face “- happy?”

“Just feel weird that it’s just going to be me he’s telling Mitchell about,” George admits. “When it was the two of us it didn’t feel so - well. It’s what you get with the media,” George realises. “Being the odd one out, the focus of the attention. You get it.”

“I do,” Owen nods. “But hey - it might not be only you. Who knows if anyone else has spoken to Eddie since I came out?”

George squints at Owen dramatically. “Do you?”

“No,” Owen laughs it off. “No - if I knew I wouldn’t have said anything!”

George hums thoughtfully, still squinting at Owen, relenting into laughter when Owen sticks his tongue out.

“Maybe we’ll get to room together this camp,” Owen says, hopeful.

“Maybe,” George smiles. He’s not so hopeful - rooming the two captains together makes sense to him, no matter who Eddie ultimately picks to lead. “It’d be nice for your birthday,” he muses, unable to stop himself dreaming.

“Oh, yeah,” Owen says, as if surprised.

George rolls his eyes. It’ll be Owen’s birthday that coming Sunday, in the middle of England camp. “Did you forget?”

“Maybe,” Owen admits.

George laughs. “Guess I’ll have to get you a present now, huh?” he teases, as if Owen’s gift isn’t sitting, already wrapped, in the wardrobe of his spare room. 

“You mean you haven’t got me one already!” Owen affects outrage, grinning.

“Eh, I was hoping I might be getting out of it,” George can’t help his returning grin, but tries not to let it overcome his dry tone. “Would’ve been a silver lining to not being in camp, you know?”

Owen scowls at him. “You’re a terrible boyfriend.”

“I’m the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“I guess,” Owen huffs.

George smiles at him, fond. “You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had too, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Owen returns George’s smile, brings a hand behind his neck, drawing him close. George moves with it easily, then Owen suddenly stops. “Wait - how do I measure up to the girlfriends?” 

George laughs. “Well -” he pretends to consider the question, laughing when Owen starts to glare. “You’re alright, I guess,” he allows, gaze falling to Owen’s lips. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Owen teases, releasing George and turning back to his food.

“No!” George whines, exaggerated protest. “Owen,” he says seriously, reaching to turn Owen’s face to his and leaving his hand on Owen’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You’re the best boyfriend - the best _partner_ \- I’ve ever had.”

Owen rolls his eyes, as if George can’t see his blush. “Sap,” he returns lightly, leaning in for a soft kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend's matches:  
> Leicester 37 - 44 Worcester  
> Saracens 38 - 15 Gloucester
> 
> (The astute among you may remember that Ben Youngs was actually a late drop out of this England camp. I, however, did not remember this, and only checked my notes after I'd written the whole camp, at which point I was frankly too frustrated to change his sections! I can only apologise /o\\)

The next week goes quickly, a blur of training, meetings, and quiet evenings. Before George knows it it’s time for the match against Worcester, and before he knows it the match is over, is lost. They come so close to drawing it, to _George_ drawing it, but it slips away. Just like Wasps the week before they’ve secured two points, and that’s valuable - but it’s not enough. This time the whole squad seem to agree, frustration the prevailing emotion in the locker room.

Still, there’s limited time to dwell on the loss as George is bundled into one of the cars that will take him and the other England representatives to Bristol, to England camp. It’s much the same group as the last time - as soon as Eddie had been informed that Manu was out he’d asked for Jordan, and Ben has spent the last 10 minutes trying to convince Jordan that this is a good thing, that Eddie wants him experienced, not that he’s just a spare part called for familiarity's sake.

George is busy messaging Owen, tuning out the rumble from Ben, the faint snores from Jonny on his shoulder, when something hits him in the face. George finds a hairband in his lap, when he looks down. “Ow?” he says pointedly, turning straight to Ben.

“Sorry,” Ben shrugs, clearly not at all repentant. “Who’re you messaging?”

“Your mum,” George grumbles, going back to it. He’s too tired from the match to deal with Ben’s nonsense. He’d rather speculate with Owen about whether or not they’ll be sharing rooms again - George thinks not, thinks it’ll be Owen and Dylan again, but Owen is more optimistic.

Ben throws another hairband at George - where is he even getting these? He hadn’t seen his daughter after the match, there’s no reason for him to have so many to hand.

“If I’m rooming with you again I will murder you in your sleep,” George warns calmly.

Ben scoffs. “Who’re you messaging?”

George sighs. “My partner. Okay?”

“What are they saying?”

George raises his eyes to the heavens - or rather, the roof of the taxi. He looks to Jordan, hoping for support, but Jordan shakes his head frantically - smart boy, he’s only just escaped Ben’s attention. “That it’s a shame we lost,” George gives Ben, knowing staying silent only makes him worse.

“Aww,” Ben coos. “Do they follow rugby, then?”

Jordan giggles.

George looks over at him again, raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Jordan apologises, looking nervous immediately. “I just - can’t imagine you dating someone who doesn’t care about the game.”

“It’s my career,” George turns back to Ben, leaving Jordan be. “They care about me.”

“Aww!” Ben coos again, louder.

Jonny shifts on George’s shoulder with a grunt. “Shut up Lenny,” he says.

“You didn’t even open your eyes! You don’t know it was me!” Ben defends. “That could have been Jordan!”

“No,” is all Jonny says.

Ben huffs, and George thinks for one glorious moment this might be one of the rare times he tries to apply the silent treatment, but - 

“So rude. I’m surrounded by rude people. You wouldn’t be rude to me, would you Jordan?” Ben asks.

“Tell him yes,” George advises, leaning his head against the headrest and closing his eyes.

“No?” Jordan says, instead.

George shakes his head, though small enough he doubts Jordan can tell. That boy is never going to make it if he can’t start standing up for himself.

“I hope I’m rooming with Jordan this weekend, not you,” Ben retorts.

“Me too,” George tells him calmly. He hopes he’s back with Owen - it’s his birthday tomorrow, and George has his gift in his bag. The England camp should be a treat, a chance to see each other and spend full days in each other company. But if they’re not sharing a room George doesn’t know how they’ll manage to find time alone, time to really speak to each other, and for George to give Owen his gift. If they’re not sharing a room, George isn’t sure a single snatched evening wouldn’t have been better.

~

As last time, it’s Owen and Saracens who make it into the England camp first - probably because their stadium isn’t in the middle of a city centre, George thinks, when Owen lets him know he’s arrived. Most of the team have been there all day, with only two Sunday matches keeping the remainder of the squad away until the evening. Following the instructions at reception George and the rest of the Leicester boys hurry to their rooms to leave their bags before going for dinner - George in a different room to Ben, thank goodness. He’s with a Saracen, though he’s not sure which, doesn’t care enough to peer at their initials after he fails to recognise any of the few belongings scattered around as Owen’s.

George chats easily with Jordan as they stand together in the queue for dinner - Jordan is rooming with Ben, but was sent down to dinner alone while Ben calls his wife. The rest of the squad are already seated and catcalling their late arrivals, something George does his best to distract Jordan from. He seems on edge, still uncomfortable with the unexpected call up. George isn’t sure whether Jordan’s excitement or nerves are worse, but either way analysis of the Worcester game seems to settle them down. George has the feeling that a proper leader, someone like Dylan or Tom, would have found a subject other than rugby to draw Jordan on, but it seems to have worked. 

“Stick with me,” George tells Jordan with a smile when he stalls after picking up his food. He leads the way to Owen, on a surprisingly Saracens light table. Jamie is there, of course, but so is Elliot, and Maro is balanced out by Henry Slade, the two of them seemingly having their own conversation.

“Alright lads,” George asks, taking a seat and nodding Jordan into the one next to him.

“Alright,” is the returning chorus.

“Sorry about your match,” Owen grimaces.

George just sighs, waves a dismissive hand as the others echo him. “Congrats on yours,” he says instead, looking around at everyone. “Jamie - 200 Prem appearances, that’s ridiculous. And 100% kicking,” George looks back to Owen. “Not bad, Owen.”

Owen shrugs, but can’t quite hide his pleased smile. “You played well,” he says, turning to Jordan.

George feels Jordan startle next to him.

“Thank you,” Jordan says tentatively. “I really thought we had the draw for a bit, but,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, that’s tough,” Elliot commiserates. 

“You nearly saved it,” Owen agrees - talking to George, quite clearly, for all he glances at Jordan too.

It’s George’s turn to shrug, try to bite down a smile. It’s an oversimplification of things, of course it is - it was far from just his work, far from just his 73 minute try that brought them so close to the draw, and everyone around the table knows that. “Left ourselves too much to do,” he says.

Owen hums agreement.

“How’s Brad?” George asks. Brad had gone off for a HIA and not returned.

The Saracens grimace as one. “He’ll be okay,” Jamie tells him.

“Might need some more metal in his face, but he will,” Owen agrees. “You know Brad - his skull’s 90% metal at this point, it’s actually a weapon. We’re only keeping up appearances by having him go off.”

George laughs - honestly, he’d hate to know what percentage of Brad’s body is made of metal, he fears it would be disturbingly high.

“Owen,” Jamie hisses. “You can’t just tell our opposition something like that! They could tell the others,” Jamie stage whispers. “Fordy’s ex-Bath, we’re playing them next - he could have lingering loyalty.”

George snorts.

“Do you, Georgie?” Owen teases. “You got loyalty to Bath stronger than your loyalty to - us?”

George tilts his head, considering. “You’re lucky JJ and Ant are injured,” he decides. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“Kind of you,” Owen says, voice soft.

George fights down a smirk. Owen knows better than to doubt George’s loyalty to him.

“I should hope so - we’re roommates this weekend, Fordy,” Maro tells him. “I’d’ve hated to get off on the wrong foot.”

George smiles at Maro. That’s good news. Not quite the roommate he’d wanted - he glances at Owen, briefly catching eye contact with Jordan on the way - but Maro would have been one of his first picks after Owen.

“How about you then?” Jamie squints at Jordan now. “You got any loyalty to Bath we should know about?”

Jordan swallows. “No?” he offers.

“No friends there? Family? Girlfriend?”

“I’ve never been to Bath,” Jordan glances at George, eyes wide. George had felt Jordan shift at the word ‘girlfriend’, wouldn’t even have needed the look. It’s his cue to move the conversation on, and fast.

“He’s a good solid Leicester boy, academy and all,” George drops a wink at Jordan, resisting the urge to sigh when he drops George’s gaze. 

“Didn’t stop you running away, did it?” Elliot points out.

“Luckily for Jordan there are two wings, so one England player in his position isn’t as much of a problem as it was for me,” George smiles wryly. “He keeps playing like this there’ll be no problem with him starting on one, no need to move.”

Jordan is blushing now, looking down at his food. 

George smiles at him indulgently. Jordan will need to get more confidence if he’s going to make it in top level rugby, the level he deserves to be at. But for now he’s a kid, and the shyness is kind of cute.

The conversation moves on to more personal topics after that, Owen and Maro making as much of an effort as George to keep Jordan involved. George is glad of the fact, the effort they’re putting him allowing him to relax more in the company of his teammates, not watch out for Jordan at every turn. Despite the effort from Owen and Maro George gradually becomes aware that Jordan is looking to him twice as much as he does to the others. He supposes it’s a comfort thing, with George acting as a familiar face in a still relatively new situation, but he’s surprised to be receiving more attention than Owen after the way the last camp had gone. 

If anything Owen is looking at Jordan more than Jordan looks at him, at one point raising his eyebrow at George when he gets caught up staring as George laughing, looks away to find Jordan watching George just the same. George hadn’t noticed Jordan’s gaze, had only been aware of Owen’s, but when Owen’s attention shifts and calls his own it doesn’t take long for Jordan’s interest to make sense. George raises an eyebrow right back at Owen, having determined this - of course Jordan is intrigued to see this level of comfort between England teammates; it’s hardly something he has within Tigers, after all. 

It’s not even something _George_ has within Tigers, he realises, not now. Not while personal conversations carry the risk someone could ask a question about his partner that he has to talk around, has to hope won’t be followed up on. Not when as soon as his partner comes up there’s a chance someone may notice his avoidance of gendered pronouns, may call him on it. George thinks a few players have noticed his language by now, but he’s not sure exactly who. He can’t be sure players aren’t simply mirroring his terms without realising, and even if they have realised George doesn’t know what they make of it. George is getting used to talking about Owen as his partner, to the accommodations he makes to do so, but that doesn’t make it comfortable. The possibilities and risks of every personal conversation circle his brain at the lightest provocation, bringing an edge to his interactions that George can’t shake. 

Here, at England, very few of his teammates even know he’s in a relationship. The topic is raised, and George feels himself tense. But he avoids answering, keeps quiet, and it passes by. No one presses - they don’t have the information to do so, don’t have the leverage to ask questions George would have to carefully pick answers to. George is free to opt out of the conversation, not address the issue of his relationship, leaving the implied link to his sexuality completely off the table. It’s where George prefers it to be, if he’s honest. He talks about his relationship at Tigers, yes, wants to be able to - but he doesn’t want to talk about his sexuality. The link between the two makes him vulnerable, but England don’t have the link, and George can relax. 

At Tigers George is walking a tightrope of disclosure, those around him more than able to push him off it at any moment. It wouldn’t even have to be intentional, wouldn’t have to be knowing. One simple realisation at the wrong moment, one particularly too keen question, and George would be in freefall. At England he’s behind a wall of silence - a wall that could be broken, sure, but doing so would require effort, deliberate force or a particularly unlucky angle. In the meantime George can shelter in peace. It is sheltering, he can admit that, is far from a neutral state - but it’s also far from the way George has to work to maintain his balance at every turn of conversation at Tigers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for this being a bit later than the usual 3pm I aim for, and slightly short too. I honestly didn't think I was going to get a chapter up this week, so I'm calling it a win - and I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs. I'd love to hear from you either there or in the comments!
> 
> This late/short chapter reflects the way I've found it hard to focus on writing these past few weeks (or honestly to want to!) while there's such an opportunity to use the current momentum of protests to educate ourselves, give support, and affect change. This week I appreciated the BBC Rugby Union podcast '[Rugby and race](https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p08gh94p)', and I hope you might too! Considering the specific events of this week I'd also like to drop a link to a set of [organisations that support black trans people](https://secure.actblue.com/donate/blacktrans-queer).


	16. Chapter 16

George wakes early the next day, Owen’s birthday. Owen’s present is in George’s overnight bag - nothing too special; a watch similar to the ones he’s seen Owen like online. He’d been conscious of getting something small enough that Owen could hide it practically. 

They’d messaged last night, agreed to both head down for an early breakfast, some time together. George just hopes no one else has planned an early morning surprise for Owen’s birthday - but he doubts it, thinks he would have heard about it if they had. He’s heard about the plans for a night out, after all, and that’s hardly his scene. 

George gets dressed quietly, aware of Maro still sleeping, and tucks Owen’s present into his pocket before sneaking out. There are meetings from 9am but with the buffet open from six George and Owen have plenty of time to spend together - though George doubts they’ll be alone, even from the start, the coaches always in early for their pre-meeting meetings, and some of the squad habitual early risers. 

George makes it to the breakfast hall before Owen, and the majority of the coaching staff are already there, looking like they’ve started their meeting at the breakfast table. George smiles at them warmly but leaves his things a few tables away - not far enough away to look like he’s avoiding them, but hopefully distant enough that they’d have to strain their ears to catch what he and Owen are saying.

“Kicking early?” Eddie asks, as George walks past their table to the buffet.

“Yeah - getting a session in as a birthday present to Faz; you know it’s his favourite thing,” George grins.

The coaches laugh obligingly, George giving them a last smile before reaching for a plate, starting to pile on food.

“Speak of the devil,” John Mitchell remarks.

George turns, smiles. “Happy birthday!” he calls across the room, the coaches echoing him.

Owen still looks half asleep, but he grins back. “Thanks,” he says. “This us?” He ditches his bag next to George’s when George nods.

“You’ve even beaten Elliot down - didn’t you want a lie in for your birthday?” Eddie asks.

“I’d rather have a kicking session,” Owen shrugs a shoulder. “My family had to call early anyway; Gabe’s got a school trip today, got to be in for half seven.”

George opens his mouth to ask where Gabe is going, then realises that might be an excuse. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know what Gabe is up to anymore. He has spoken to Colleen and Andy since the summer, on and off, hears updates on Gabe through them and of course Owen, but he’s lost that insight into Farrell daily life.

“That for me?” Owen asks, sidling up next to George and leaning heavily into his space to peer at his breakfast.

“Birthday treat?” George offers it over to him easy enough, leaning back into Owen. “No?” he teases, when Owen pulls the face he had fully expected at George’s breakfast choices.

Owen knocks George’s shoulder before reaching for his own plate. “Generous, but no,” he declines.

“Ungrateful,” George teases, taking the excuse to knock Owen right back before taking his seat at their table.

George glances at the coaches as he does so - they seem absorbed in their own conversation, but the lack of other people in the room means George can hear them better than he would have liked, means they will be able to hear him and Owen the same.

George smiles up at Owen, lets it be as fond as he likes, when he comes to sit.

“Alright?” George asks, voice low.

“Alright,” Owen confirms, his own smile softening in response. “You?”

“Rooming with Maro, this camp’s already better than the last,” George quirks a grin, shifting and letting his knee fall into Owen’s as he does so.

“I’ve got Dylan again,” Owen tells George - nothing he didn’t already know, but standard early camp exchanges for the coaches.

“Pretty good,” George nods.

They eat largely in silence, interspersed with pleasantries and commentary on the weekend’s matches. George manages to get Owen laughing with an impression of Geordie; Owen returns the favour with a tale from the Saracens’ team bus the day before. It’s not stilted, the two of them talking easily, but it is controlled. Owen doesn’t tell him how his sisters are getting on back in their uni cities, and George doesn’t regale Owen with Kobe’s latest antics. They save that for the walk to the pitch, nodding at a few more early risers as they pass them. Owen accepts his birthday wishes with a smile but doesn’t stop walking, so neither does George.

Finally they’re free, properly free, the length of a rugby pitch from the hotel and any potential eavesdroppers. They could still be seen, if anyone were to look out of the windows of the hotel, but there’s no need to watch their words.

“How’s your birthday going?” George asks Owen, deliberately reaching for the same tee so he can take Owen’s hand, give it a quick squeeze. 

It’s nothing, less than the way they’d lent into each other in front of the coaches.

Owen squeezes back just the same.

“Yeah, it was nice to see Gabe,” Owen smiles fondly in memory. “And I’m glad we did this,” he gestures to their surroundings. “It’s good to see you, too - properly, you know?”

“Always good to see you, love,” George tells him, smiling gently. 

He wants to kiss Owen. If they were alone, if they were safe, he would kiss Owen - but at least he can see him.

Owen smiles back, reaches out to squeeze George’s shoulder, the platonic gesture eliminated by the way his thumb strokes over George’s collarbone.

“We better kick,” Owen says reluctantly, letting George go.

“What, after your 100% record at the weekend?” George teases. “I think you’re good.”

“Well yeah,” Owen straightens up from placing the ball on the tee. “But you missed - two, was it? You need all the practice you can get, Georgie,” he tells him earnestly, eyes sparkling.

George shakes his head, laughing. “Rude!” he objects, as Owen kicks. “Carry on like that and you won’t get your present.”

Owen turns back to him, eyes lighting up. “Present?” he asks.

George takes his time setting his own kick, taking it, Owen not looking away. 

“Something other than the show?” Owen asks when George turns back to him, deliberately glancing down as George’s arse.

“Oi,” George laughs, not even bothering to make it sounds like a protest. “I’m not an object, you know - pretty sure that means I can’t be a gift.”

Owen shrugs expansively. “Don’t see why not.”

“Well if you want me we might have to find somewhere more private,” George raises an eyebrow, using the hem of his shirt to wipe at his face, just to tease.

Owen groans, heartfelt. “If we could.”

“Yeah,” George sighs, dropping his shirt, the act.

“Should’ve asked to decide rooms, as a birthday treat. Should’ve asked Maro and Dylan to swap!”

“Yeah, because of all people, Maro’s the one we want to start wondering,” George scoffs. He waves a dismissive hand when Owen’s expression turns towards concern. It’s nothing specific, he just thinks Maro’s a lot more observant than most of their teammates. “I’ve got your present with me,” he distracts Owen. “I don’t know if we can really do it now -” George glances back at the hotel “- but I didn’t know if I’d be able to get it to you any other time.”

George retrieves the wrapped box from his pocket, offers it to Owen.

Owen takes it eagerly. “Fuck it, let’s -”

“Yoohoo!” comes a call from behind them.

George spins, fast enough that he almost misses Owen shoving the present into his pocket, burying it away.

“Heard there was a kicking session!” Elliot’s still yelling, coming closer. “Jamie sent me to burn off energy.”

George and Owen exchange a look, a grimace.

“A _birthday_ kicking session,” Elliot goes on, emptying a second bag of balls onto the ground behind them. “Hope that doesn’t mean we’ve got to let him win, Fordy?”

George laughs, hoping it’ll calm the pounding of his heart, the feeling of being _caught_. He and Owen were talking, kicking, nothing more - nothing to feel caught out on. “Not a chance,” he claims.

“Georgie,” Owen gasps, eyes wide. “I thought you _were_. Maybe we should step it up,” he frowns, mock concern.

George laughs, reaches over to knock Owen sideways as he stoops to place to ball on his tee. “That’s about enough out of you,” he scolds. 

“Is that birthday abuse I see?” Elliot asks, mirroring Owen’s concern. “If I thought you needed it, Faz, I’d let you win, to compensate.”

“That’s very kind, Elliot,” Owen smirks. “I appreciate you conceding the inevitable victory.”

“That’s not -” Elliot gives up. “You’re not hearing it again for a year,” he warns, laughter in his voice.

The kicking session is fun, Elliot always a laugh, and George pulling through to a higher success rate opening up an opportunity for plenty of teasing. But George feels frustrated when they head inside, can tell Owen is too. They’ve a morning full of meetings now, training after lunch, then more meetings until they go out for Owen’s supposed surprise evening. George can’t see a window in there for time alone, and he’d known that would be the way, known to expect it - but he’d hoped for more than the half hour or so they’d had that morning to tide them through. 

Owen will open his present, at some point - and George won’t see it. He sighs, shaking his head when Owen looks at him in concern, touching his shoulder when his expression morphs into sympathy, understanding. They might actually have had more time together, _really_ together, if they hadn’t been in camp. Right now, a snatched evening with just the two of them sounds better than a whole day, surrounded by others.

~

“Looking good, Fordy,” Maro whistles.

George frowns at himself in the mirror - is he? He’d wanted to make an effort for Owen’s birthday, even if it is only a night out with the entire England squad, but he thinks he probably could have tried a bit harder. George sighs, turning away from the mirror and back to Maro.

“Damn, Pearl,” he admires, checking Maro out - overly blatant in the way that apparently makes such an act allowed. “You’re gonna show the rest of us up!”

Maro’s gone for a cream silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up, contrasting beautifully with his rich skin. He takes up George’s space in front of the mirror and frowns, unbuttoning another button. George thinks Maro might get cold, but there’s no denying that he’s going to look better than the rest of the squad combined. 

George bites his lip - all he’s done is pull out a tighter pair of jeans than usual, mess his hair up a little the way he knows Owen likes. His shirt is one of Owen’s, something he’d bought in Italy and left at George’s after the summer. It’ll mean something to Owen, and George thinks the blue suits him, but he’s got nothing on Maro. He’d undo another button if he thought that would pass notice without teasing, but while the lads will no doubt admire Maro George would just get mocked. 

George sighs when Maro picks up a beautiful leather jacket, as if he’d needed anything else to add to the look. George collects his old standard jacket with a grimace.

“Let me know if you need me to clear out,” George tells Maro as they leave the room, only half joking.

Maro turns, flashing George a smile. “I’m just out for a good time with my mates, no need for that.”

George eyes Maro head to toe again - he’s not sure he could resist anyway, at least this gives him a good excuse. “Uh huh,” he replies, unconvinced. “The people of Bristol might feel differently.”

“Well that’s their loss,” Maro’s smile sharpens, turns mischievous. 

George is glad he’s a happily attached man, because he has a feeling Maro might be breaking some hearts out there tonight - or at least hopes.

They’re two of the last down to the lobby, the area already filled with milling England players as Owen’s eyes land on George and darken. George bites his lip to contain a smile, sees the way Owen’s eyes catch on that - maybe he could have tried harder, but it seems Owen is happy enough with the outcome. There are whistles as they descend the stairs, Jamie George hollering Maro - George takes a step to the side to allow Maro to head down first, basking in the way Owen’s gaze doesn’t budge. he finally loses sight of Owen as he takes the last step down the the lobby, loses him in the crowd of people, but heads straight to his side. George had been so preoccupied basking in Owen’s gaze, in his expression, that he had barely looked at Owen himself.

Once he catches sight of Owen again George wastes no time in rectifying that, letting himself linger in the process as everyone else seems distracted, chattering away at the top of their lungs. Owen’s dressed as casually as George but looks ten times better, hair perfectly neat as ever and t shirt hanging off him in a way that emphasises the width of his shoulders. George sneaks up behind where Owen is laughing at Elliot and Jamie still admiring Maro, grabs dramatically at his waist and leans close to speak in his ear.

“Happy birthday,” is all he says, all of what he wants to that he can say - _I love you, you look gorgeous_ \- that he can, at least at a volume that others can hear. George is pushing his luck enough getting his hands all over Owen, as little as he can resist - flat out whispering in his ear would definitely be too much.

As it is Owen startles, jerking away to the laughter of their friends.

“Thank you, George,” he bites out, turning to make eye contact.

“You’re welcome,” George shrugs loosely. “This about everyone?” he asks, looking around.

“Think it’s just Lenny and Jordan left,” Elliot reports. “You two took your time getting pretty,” he adds.

George shakes his head. “Just trying to compete,” he says, jerking a thumb at Maro. “No chance, of course, but you’ve gotta try.”

“Ah, I gave up years ago,” Jamie tells him. “No sensible girl will look at anyone else while Maro’s in the room - best to accept that early on.”

“Is that your excuse?” Owen banters back, quick.

“Does Katie know this?” is Elliot’s contribution. “Is that how you ended up with her, because she saw you before Maro?”

“It’s the only way I stand a chance,” Jamie sighs, overly dramatic.

Elliot whips out his phone. “Pose,” he instructs Maro.

Maro gives him a long look, then obliges. He slings his jacket over his shoulder, raises his chin just a touch. George tries not to swallow his tongue, glances across to see that Owen is looking, now. He can hardly blame him.

No sooner has George thought than than Owen is glancing back at George, smiling to find George’s eyes already on him. “Nice shirt,” he murmurs, under cover of their teammates assessing Maro’s chances of success in modelling.

“Thanks,” George grins, touching his own sleeve. It’s a little large in the shoulders, but not much, not enough for anyone to notice. Not unless they were looking close, not unless they already knew.

“There we are,” Elliot finally declares. “Now to see if Katie’ll still want anything to do with Jamie after I send her this!” he teases, tapping away at his phone.

“No,” Jamie yelps, snatching it off him.

Owen laughs as Elliot takes chase, the two of them dodging between and disturbing various teammates in their game.

George laughs too, forcing himself to look away, to watch the chaos and not Owen’s face. But oh, Owen’s _face_ … George will never be over the way Owen’s expression crinkles up when he laughs, the pure happiness that shines through. He loves Owen’s mischievous smile, loves his smirk, but there’s nothing as beautiful as the way he laughs, the way he gives his full body into the movement.

Owen sways into George as Jamie runs directly into Kruiso’s back, doubling over as his laughter intensifies. George isn’t sure if it was deliberate but he leans back just the same, leans into Owen’s warmth.

“What on _earth_ is going on?” Ben’s voice pierces the chaos.

George and Owen turn as one to find Ben on the stairs to the lobby, Jordan cringing next to him as Ben’s words attract attention. 

“You’re meant to be setting a good example to the new boys, not - whatever this is,” Ben gestures, bounding down the last couple of steps.

“This _is_ a good example,” Elliot protests.

“It’s an example of how much fun camp can be,” Jamie nods. Elliot’s phone seems to have disappeared; George wonders which one of them has possession of it. “It might break up your years long relationship,” Jamie continues - so Elliot has the phone, has managed to send the photo. “But you know, fun. Bonding with your usual rivals. Fun,” he repeats, his smile a rictus.

“I’m not going to ask,” Ben declares.

“Is that all of us?” Dylan checks. 

Everyone glances around - George can’t see anyone missing. He catches Dylan’s eye and nods, as does everyone else in their loose circle.

“Then it’s time to get going.”

~

A coach has been hired to take them into town and back, however late it gets - apart from that, Elliot and Jamie have handled the itinerary. The only official restriction on the evening is that they all come back together. George has a faint suspicion that this might lead to an evening that’s less fun for Owen than some of the other guys, longer than Owen might prefer, but he knows Owen would never object.

George manages to claim the seat inside Owen, Jonny and Jordan in front of them and Jamie and Elliot across the aisle. Owen gets sucked into Jamie and Elliot’s banter right from the start, Jonny adding his unique humour to proceedings. George finds himself largely cut off from the chat but is more than happy to sit there, thigh plastered to Owen’s, listening to him laugh. It’s one of the most enjoyable 30 minutes he’s had the whole camp.

They pile off the bus in the centre, George floating to Jordan’s side when Jonny gets dragged off by Elliot. 

“Alright?” he asks Jordan, as Jamie and Elliot start leading the way - well, wherever it is they’re going. It’s early on a Monday night so George doubts, wherever it is, that they’ll have problems getting in.

Jordan startles, seeming surprised to be addressed. “Yeah.”

“Owen’s not a fan of a night out really, it won’t go on too long,” George confides in Jordan.

He’s not strictly sure that’s true - Owen might not choose something like this, but he likes a drink as much as the next rugby player and he won’t want to be the one calling them all home. But it is mid season, so presumably the other lads won’t want to go too hard either. Presumably.

“Talking about me?” Owen swoops in between the two of them, pulling George to him with an arm around his waist, getting in a quick pinch before he releases.

“Always,” George flutters his eyelashes at Owen. “You’re the centre of my existence.”

“Sweet talker,” Owen rolls his eyes. It’s dark, but George thinks he might be blushing.

“Just telling Jord it won’t go on too long,” George explains.

“You don’t like clubbing?” Owen looks at Jordan.

“Oh, no, it’s fine! And it’s your birthday, you should celebrate!” Jordan hurries.

“Dylan and me already agreed an 11pm cut off,” Owen tells them both. “Mid season, you know.”

“It’s fine,” Jordan mutters again.

George feels a little bad seeing how embarrassed Jordan is. He hadn’t said anything; George had just remembered preseason drinks, Jordan looking like he was having just as much fun as George was. George had meant to reassure Jordan, not embarrass him.

“Georgie here is the dullest man in the squad,” Owen nudges Jordan with a grin, winking. “He was probably reassuring himself, you just happened to be there,” he goes on, wrapping an arm around George’s shoulders. 

“Oi!” George exclaims, as if he could ever mind anything that makes Owen look so pleased with himself, leaves him touching him.

“Are we going to a gay bar?” Jordan suddenly exclaims.

George looks around. “Seems like it.” 

That sure is a Pride flag lit up by the door of the club Jamie and Elliot have just entered.

George makes eye contact with Owen, raises an eyebrow minutely. Owen presses his lips together - he hadn’t known.

“That’s - I mean that’s fine,” Jordan stutters. “That’s totally fine, it’s great, I didn’t mean -” 

“You don’t need to apologise,” Owen cuts him off. “I think we’re all surprised.”

“Yeah, but I _really_ -” Jordan cuts himself off, now, glancing between the two of them before dropping his eyes to the ground in defeat.

George shares a look with Owen, sympathetic. Whatever the reason for Jordan’s stumbling he’s talked himself into an awkward corner. 

“They didn’t tell you, then?” George asks Owen, to move conversation on.

“No,” Owen says, voice tight as the lads ahead of them visibly go through their own moment of realisation. “I’d’ve told them not to.”

“You would?” Jordan asks, surprised.

“I’m happily settled,” Owen tells him. “I’m not going to be looking for anything here - seems a shame to cut off the option for the majority of the lads.”

George shrugs. “They can still dance,” he says. He can tell that Owen feels faintly guilty, but he shouldn’t. “It’s not like anything else would happen, anyway.”

“No,” Owen concedes. 

Owen shakes off the last bit of hesitance as they reach the door of the club. “Let’s dance,” he grins, glancing back over his shoulder as he steps through the door of the club.

 _Let’s dance_ , George thinks, helpless to do anything but follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really like this little Bristol section, so I hope you will too :) As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	17. Chapter 17

The night warms up slowly - they’re the only ones in the club, near enough, and more than a few of the lads seem scared of the dancefloor. George tries not to think about why, doesn’t want to wind himself up. He, Owen, Lenny, Jonny and Maro settle into a booth, Jordan safely installed with Tom Curry and Nathan Earle, within eyesight.

“He going to be okay?” Owen asks George, following his gaze to Jordan. He takes the excuse to lean in close, a hand on George’s knee.

George grimaces. “Yeah,” he decides. “He’ll get on with Tom.”

Owen nods agreement, leaning back - slipping his hand up, just slightly, from George’s knee. Not removing it.

George shoots him a look beneath his eyelashes, has to look away when all Owen gives him is a small smirk.

It’s stupid, it’s reckless - but it’s hidden under the table, and it’s Owen’s birthday, and George feels brave, here. He had in gay clubs back in Bath, too, knowing that anything over the limit would be seen as throwing himself in. Just like Jamie and Elliot, he thinks wryly, watching the two of them take to the floor.

George leans forward readily when Lenny tries to initiate conversation across the table, shifting so Owen’s hand sneaks up his leg just that little bit more. He hates this about clubs, hates how hard it is to hold a conversation - it’s hard enough to focus just by being conscious of Owen’s hand on his thigh, a hand that is being remarkably well behaved. George thinks that’s probably for the best; any more would push his courage a step too far.

The club fills up slowly as the five of them talk, a mix of new people who’ve obviously heard that the England rugby squad are in town, in their bar, and some of their teammates summoning the courage to get out there. Jamie and Elliot have led by exuberant example, as always, and by the time the two of them come to insist Owen join them George would estimate two thirds of their teammates are out there on the dancefloor. Most of them are dancing by themselves, but some are in loose groups that include strangers. George has to blink, when he notices this - dancing with gay men, in public, England rugby players. Who would have thought it?

“Come dance!” Elliot invites, Jamie at his side, sweeping his gaze around the whole table before narrowing down to Owen.

“I’m good,” Owen laughs, shaking his head.

Maro stands, “I’m in,” he grins, sweeping Jamie away to dance before he or Elliot can respond, Jamie’s delighted laughter floating back to them.

“Come on, Faz,” Elliot implores, sobering. “Have a good time - everyone else is, you know,” he gestures behind him.

“I am,” Owen protests.

“Have a better time,” Elliot insists.

Owen glances at George. He’s conflicted, George sees. He does want to go out there.

“Go on, Owen,” he encourages.

“What your boyfriend doesn’t know won’t hurt him!” Ben leers.

Owen flinches at that, gripping tight where his hand still rests on George’s thigh.

“I’ll tell Char you think that, shall I?” George cuts in mildly, naming Ben’s wife, before Owen can snap. He rests his hand on Owen’s, squeezes.

Owen doesn’t look at him but flips his hand over, intertwines their fingers briefly as Ben sputters protests.

“Alright,” Owen concedes, standing.

There’s a cheer at that, covering Jonny’s mirroring of Owen’s decision and attracting the attention of the nearest few on the floor. Owen smiles, bashful, as he squeezes his way out of the booth. George stands to let him out, rests a hand on Owen’s hip as he moves past.

“Come?” Owen asks, quiet, unseen or heard by the others.

“Have fun,” George bids, equally subtle, smiling slightly up at Owen as he sits back down.

“Come on Fordy, you’re practically the only one left!” Jonny encourages, starting to bounce on the edge of the dancefloor.

“I’ll keep Mr Boring over here company, don’t worry about it,” Ben says, an uncharacteristic rescue.

George eyes him suspiciously.

“Alright, come on,” Owen starts to shepherd Jonny and Elliot away. “It’s my birthday, I thought you were meant to be showing me a good time?”

George doesn’t hear what Owen says after that, but it makes Jonny woop and Elliot catch him up in a ballroom hold. George smiles at them fondly. Owen _is_ having fun. It had been a loaded choice of venue, but George is glad it’s paid off.

“You okay?” Ben asks loudly.

“Me?” George blinks at him.

“Yeah,” Ben says, deliberately gazing around the room.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” George asks, following his line of sight. 

George can’t spot any particularly thing that would make him uncomfortable but he does notice Jordan, propped up against the bar, having an in depth conversation with a good looking stranger. George smiles at him fondly - he doesn’t know what’s going on with Jordan, still doesn’t want to assume, but it’s nice to see him more relaxed than he has been the whole rest of the weekend.

“You know, everyone not knowing, that -” Ben waggles his eyebrows significantly. “Doesn’t it feel awkward?”

“Oh - no,” George tells him, leaning back and sipping his beer. “Bath used to go to gay clubs, a fair bit,” he tells Ben. “I liked it.”

“I bet you did,” Ben says, voice heavy with suggestion.

“Not -” George stops himself. It was partially for exactly what Ben thought, after all. “I couldn’t exactly pick up when the lads were there,” he scoffs instead. “But I worried less, I suppose, about acting wrong somehow, saying something I hadn’t properly thought through or whatever. Anything can be written off as throwing yourself in, here, there’s no rules - just look at that,” he gestures, catching sight of Elliot full on writhing on Jonny.

Ben pulls a face. “I’m okay, thanks,” he tells George. “But I guess I get what you mean. You want to go out there, then?”

George shakes his head. “Nah, I’m happy here. You can, though,” he adds - it isn’t like Ben to stay seated when there’s action elsewhere.

“And leave my best buddy all by himself?” Ben gasps dramatically. “I would never.”

George laughs. “Of course.”

They chat amiably for a few minutes, Dylan coming over to join them when he’s abandoned in his own booth. George never feels like he knows Dylan particularly well, Ben and Owen being the ones to settle him in when he’d come into camp, tense as things had occasionally been with Owen at the time. They’d worked together well in Argentina, and George likes him, but they’ve never become close. It’s nice to talk to him now, as much as they can, remind himself that Dylan is more than just his captain, more than just the man who’s stolen away George and Owen’s roomshare. Dylan had been one of the first out on the floor at the start of the night, setting an example, despite how rarely George has ever before seen him dancing with any degree of sobriety. 

“Half an hour left,” Dylan remarks.

George raises his eyebrows in surprise - normally he’s the one counting down to the end of these nights, but this seems to have flown by. Owen arrives, then, holds both hands out to the table.

“Come dance,” Owen entreats. His eyes are sparkling with energy where they latch onto George’s after a cursory glance at Ben and Dylan, his face flushed from movement.

George bites his lip, watches Owen’s eyes drop to it and then away, back to Ben.

“It’s not like you to sit still, c’mon Lenny,” Owen encourages.

George wants to dance, is the thing. Just because he doesn’t like nights out often, doesn’t really like getting drunk, doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy dancing. He wants to dance, and he wants to dance with Owen - he’s just not entirely sure it’s a good idea. But Ben’s up, now, and Owen’s gaze has shifted back to him. It is Owen’s birthday.

“You don’t want me?” Dylan asks, teasing, clearly noticing the way Owen’s focus had fallen to George.

Owen looks back to Dylan. “You came out earlier - and I appreciate that, Dylan,” he tells him, energy dampened to sincerity. “But these two lumps have been sat down all evening,” he turns to Ben and George, eyes sparkling once more. “They’re going to have some _fun_.”

George swallows. Oh, he’s sure he’ll have fun alright. He sighs dramatically as he stands. “I guess it _is_ your birthday.”

Ben cheers, grabbing George by the hand and whisking him onto the dancefloor, past Kruis and Robshaw talking very intently to a pair of women, knocking him into someone.

“Sorry mate,” George shouts over his shoulder to the man Ben had spun him into.

“You’re alright darling,” the man calls back.

George throws his head back and laughs, letting his body move to the music. As he straightens up he catches sight of Kruis and Robshaw again, gets an excellent look at realisation dawning on Kruiso’s face as one of the girls the two of them were talking to kisses the other briefly before heading to the bar, Chris looking completely unfazed. Getting called darling on the dancefloor, a teammate mistakenly trying to chat up queer women - George could never have imagined an England night out like this. 

But as much as George is basking in it Ben’s dancing is stilted, so when George catches sight of Jonny he grabs hold of his arm, brings him in to form a loose circle. Ben and Jonny match somehow, complete opposites in style, and George takes his first opportunity to move away from them, hoping to make his way to Owen. Now he’s been dragged out there’s no way he’s leaving without getting a dance in with Owen, wise or not.

George works his way past Tom, together with Jordan and the man Jordan had been talking to at the bar. Their eyes catch as George goes past and he winks, treasuring the warm smile that garners. Something other than nerves, from Jordan! George is more and more glad that they’d come. Finally he spots Owen, dancing with Maro, and his breath catches.

They both look beautiful, Maro moving in unity with the music in a way none of George’s other teammates have managed. But if Maro is absorbed in the music Owen is absorbed in the moment, moving his body with absolute freedom, eyes closed, no concern for anyone around him. He’s got an arm swung around Maro’s shoulder and Maro is moving to him, but Owen is caught in his own little bubble, expression rapturous. The song switches and Owen’s eyes blink open, land on George - his expression lightens further, something George wouldn’t have guessed was possible, shifting from freedom to joy.

George isn’t close enough to hear him but he can see Owen exclaiming his name, Maro looking up at the sound as Owen releases him. George grins at Maro in the split second before Owen spins back to him, hoping that works to mask whatever expression had settled on his face watching Owen.

George works his way the last couple of meters to the pair of them, grinning when Owen releases Maro, moving towards to George, before he can even get there. Maro seems content dancing alone, closing his eyes in a mirror of Owen and making no move to follow. 

Then Owen is on George, and all of his attention narrows.

“Georgie,” Owen purrs in his ear, warm and close, music giving him all the excuse he needs.

“Having fun?” George asks, light, nodding back to Maro.

Owen moves away, gives George a respectable amount of space that he frankly doesn’t want. George sways forwards on the next beat, moves into Owen, hopes he’ll get the message.

“Jealous?” Owen asks, voice equally light but an eyebrow raised.

George laughs. “Of you, yeah!” he exclaims. “Maro looks so good.”

“He does,” Owen agrees, glancing behind him at where someone is already trying their luck dancing with Maro. “Looks like he’s having a good time, too.”

“Looks like everyone is,” George says.

Owen looks pointedly over George’s shoulder - George doesn’t need to turn to know the table he’s looking at, the table of guys who haven’t moved since they arrived, who won’t be dragged onto the dancefloor for love nor money.

George shrugs widely. “Most everyone,” he amends, not particularly caring about those that aren’t right now.

“Are you?” Owen asks. “I didn’t mean to drag you out, if you weren’t -”

George waves a hand, cutting him off, leaving said hand on Owen’s shoulder. “I am,” he smiles. “I feel - relaxed. Honest,” he insists, when Owen looks at him sceptically.

“How many drinks did you have?” Owen asks, grinning cheekily.

George throws his head back in a laugh, treasuring the way Owen’s eyes are flicking over him when he looks back. “Just the one,” he tells Owen.

“Lightweight,” Owen teases.

George just rolls his eyes, slides closer into Owen’s body for a beat. “Dance with me,” he murmurs, warm.

”You sure?” Owen asks, gaze flicking around the club to encompass their teammates, the various members of the public who are, admittedly, doing a pretty good job at pretending they’re not gawping at the international sportsmen in their midst. George wonders if Jamie and Elliot had requested a no selfie policy from the club, as he’s not seen anyone being asked.

“Isn’t that why you got me out here?” George teases, biting down on a smile at the way Owen drifts back in to him when he moves away.

“I got you out here so you’d have fun, and so you wouldn’t look like them!” Owen tells him, glancing pointedly at that same table again. 

George hadn’t even thought of that, too aware of the risk of going too far dancing with Owen to consider the other possibility, that not going out at all would put him in the same category as their markedly uncomfortable teammates. He’s doubly glad Owen had pulled him out here, now. But he still doesn’t think that was Owen’s true motivation, and fixes him with an unimpressed look that says so. 

“And I hoped you might dance with me,” Owen adds..

“I’ve been out with Bath in gay bars, nothing is over the limit, nothing’ll be made of it,” George explains. Yes, he had been worried at the start of the night - especially as participation is more out of character for him - but being out on the floor has shown him that England have thrown themselves in as well as Bath always did. He and Owen shouldn’t forget themselves, still, but there’s a safe behavioural window more than big enough for them to dance in. George goes up on his tiptoes, wraps both arms around Owen’s neck. “Dance with me.”

“No one in Bath already knew one half of a couple was gay,” Owen points out, but wraps an arm around George’s waist easy enough.

They lapse into silence, moving together with the ease of their years of history. Despite his words George doesn’t put nearly as much heat into the moves as he could, and neither does Owen. They’re close, but no more than the rest of their teammates surrounding them - or at least not for longer than a few snatched seconds at a time. 

One of those moments comes when Owen slides a hand up the back of George’s head, through his hair, and George feels the cold of a watch on the back of his neck.

“Like your hair,” Owen murmurs into his ear, before he sways away.

George takes hold of Owen’s wrist, pulls him in for a beat pressed close. “Like your watch,” he says, having glanced down to determine that yes, it is the one he’d given Owen this morning.

“Me too,” Owen grins, wide.

“Last birthday dances!” Elliot bellows into George’s ear.

George flinches forwards, away from the noise, into the solid line of Owen’s body. Owen stabilises him with a hand pressed low on the small of his back, fingers trailing across it reluctantly when George moves to his side, turning to face Elliot, moving away.

It’s not just Elliot who is awaiting George’s gaze - Dylan is there too, and Ben and Jonny and Jamie, and Maro is looking over interestedly from where he seems to have shaken off dancing companions again. 

“Last birthday dance!” Jamie yells up to the sky.

Elliot wraps his arms around Owen first, slipping in where George just was - George feels a flicker of jealousy, completely out of place. It softens when Owen meets his eyes, just briefly, over Elliot’s shoulder, and George can tell he’s regretting the interruption too. George turns into the arm Jonny slides around his waist briefly to claim him as a partner, figuring he probably _should_ dance some more with people who aren’t Owen.

Even while dancing with Jonny, then getting his own turn with Maro, George notices when Elliot ends his turn dancing with Owen with a kiss on his cheek, leaving him free for Jamie to take a turn. They’re all pressed together now anyway, as if the club were twice as full, all of George and Owen’s closest friends forming a bubble of joy, of freedom, in the centre of the dancefloor. Jamie ends his turn with Owen with a kiss on the cheek, too, Maro sweeping in before George can. Ben takes his opportunity for another turn with George, having seemingly loosened up, taking a hold of George’s hips that he’s frankly not sure he’s comfortable with before Jonny joins them.

George waits out his teammates, encouraging Jonny and then Ben to take their turns with Owen first, dancing by himself briefly as he takes stock of Jamie, Elliot and Dylan’s progress gathering the squad by the door. It’s a work in progress, England players scattered and distracted retrieving their teammates from around the club, when Ben ends his dance with Owen with a smacking kiss on his cheek, Owen shaking his head and laughing incredulously. 

George slides in when Ben moves away, presses close. “Having fun?” he asks, again, wrapping one arm around Owen’s neck and leaning back into the press of Owen’s palm at the small of his back.

“So much,” Owen laughs. “Didn’t expect it.”

“We’ll have to thank Jamie and Elliot,” George murmurs as the song comes to a close, pulling himself up by the hand around Owen’s neck.

Owen steadies him with a second arm around his shoulders.

George presses a kiss to Owen’s cheek, soft and lingering. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs.

Owen releases a shaky sigh, and George pulls back to see that his eyes have fallen shut.

Owen opens them, makes eye contact, his fingers trailing slowly across George’s skin as he steps away.

“It’s been the best,” Owen smiles, content. “The best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was definitely one of my favourites to write! If anyone knows Bristol I was imagining (a variation upon) the Queenshilling for the club. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	18. Chapter 18

George looks for Owen the whole next morning, never manages to exchange more than a wave. When George gets down to breakfast Owen’s table is already full, and Ben is making enough of a nuisance of himself when Leicester’s taxi arrives that George doesn’t get a chance to sneak to Owen’s side, wish him goodbye. 

At least they’d had those moments the night before, George thinks as he takes his seat in the taxi, staring out the window and pretending not to hear Ben and Jonny’s latest nonsensical argument. They’d been snatched, moments of intimacy in a public place, and interrupted more often than not - but that’s not what George wants to dwell on. They’d had that time, time to be close, time to be together. It’s better than nothing, he tells himself, as the taxi pulls away.

George leans his head back, closing his eyes without having decided if he’s going to attempt sleep or just pretend to. It had been better than nothing, better than not seeing Owen at all. That’s what he should dwell on, the thought he does drift to sleep on. It had been good to see Owen.

When George wakes they’re most of the way to Leicester, Ben frowning down at his phone screen in a way that can’t bode well.

“Alright there Lenny?” George asks softly, noticing Jordan asleep on his left.

“Trouble,” Ben says, face tight, passing the phone over to George.

 _‘England stars wild night out at gay bar’_ George reads, sees a picture of Owen and Maro dancing, hands the phone back without reading on. He shakes his head when Ben raises an eyebrow. “Trouble,” he agrees - that’s what it is, all George needs to know. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Trouble?” Jonny asks, low, also conscious of Jordan sleeping. “Shit,” he sighs, scrolling down Ben’s phone screen.

“I didn’t know being in bed by midnight was a sign of a wild night,” George says lightly, not wanting to dwell on it too seriously. “I guess I’m less dull than I’ve always been told.”

Ben snorts in amusement, George scowling at him when that disturbs Jordan. “You wish,” he scoffs.

“’re we nearly there yet?” Jordan asks, peering out the window.

“Nearly,” George tells him, as the driver indicates off the M6. 

“Might want to get ready for some teasing when we get there,” Jonny says to Jordan, handing over the phone.

George’s first reaction is annoyance - Jordan doesn’t need to see that, doesn’t need to deal with it. Then he registers Jonny’s words, recognises the truth in them. The lads will be as bad as the media, won’t care how short a time they spent there, how tame everything was - they went to a _gay_ bar; the scandal is inherent.

“Bath went out to gay bars all the time,” George reflects mournfully. 

He could have had it so easy, if he’d stayed with them. They wouldn’t have thought anything of this, and he might have stayed with the girl he was seeing, that had definitely had the potential to build. He might never have started dating Owen again, never had to deal with this in such an immediate sense. George shakes himself - there’s no way that would be better. Even snatched moments with Owen are worth that entire news story, one kiss on the cheek with him equal to anything he’d had while dating at Bath.

“They did?” Jordan looks at him, eyes wide. He goes to give the phone to Ben but George intercepts - if they’re going to have to deal with the squad he should probably know the details. Mostly he wonders about photos - he’d seen the one shot of Owen and Maro, but what about any of Owen’s other dances? The kisses he’d been given by the squad? By George?

“Yeah,” George tells him absently. “It wasn’t a big deal for them. Not every night out, but probably once a month? There were a couple on the circuit of bars.” He scrolls past most of the text, scanning the paragraphs for names more than anything, easily able to imply the drift of the story. The inherent scandal of visiting a gay bar, the gleefully related detail that said bar had once held a fundraiser for Leather Pride - George doesn’t see how that’s relevant when they hadn’t attended it, wonders how long ago it was in any case, but of course the Mail had been eager to find and share such a fact. 

George scrolls past a stock photo of the outside of the club, a few shots of the boys looking tired in training the day before, captions speculating if the night out that had not yet occurred was the reason. George rolls his eyes, exasperated but not surprised. Why let little details like the chronology of time get in the way of a good story? Maro with his arm around Owen’s neck is the one picture they have from England’s night, taken from an incredulous member of the public’s instagram story. George can’t bring himself to be mad at the guy, tempting as it is. 

That won’t be where the story has come from.

“Sounds like you went out more back then,” Jonny says, a statement delayed and mild enough that George can tell he’s considered it, considered what might be safe to say, to ask. 

George shrugs, not exactly able to argue. Part of that had been the make up of the club route, the added relaxation that the environment of a gay bar brings. Mostly, though - “I went out more because I wanted to fit in,” he tells Jonny truthfully.

“Can I have my phone back now?” Ben asks, holding a hand back.

George returns it, frowning thoughtfully. “Can we get Tom to talk the lads down?” he wonders aloud.

Ben shakes his head. “They’re not going to leave it until they’ve taken the mick,” he points out, undeniable truth. 

“Trying to get them to back off might only make it worse,” Jonny adds.

“Looks defensive,” George agrees thoughtfully. “Ugh,” he huffs. “I can’t be bothered to deal with this, with them making it a big deal,” he admits, laughing ruefully. There aren’t very many people he’d admit that to - and he’s not strictly sure Jordan is one of them - but fatigue overpowers him.

“It was a good night out though,” Jonny reflects.

“Worth it,” Ben nods. “Even got you out dancing Fordy, we don’t see that very often!”

“Are you going to get out again at the partner’s dinner, Fordy?” Jonny teases. “I can’t believe we’re even getting you out of the house two nights a week.”

George rolls his eyes - he’d forgotten that the annual Leicester partner’s dinner was coming up, if he’s honest. He’s tempted to say he’ll dance if Jordan will, but doesn’t think it fair to bring him into the teasing. He’s glad when conversation moves on without his response - he can’t help dwelling on Ben’s words - worth it, he’d said. 

George had enjoyed himself, had a good time - but was it worth it? Worth the entire Leicester squad ribbing them about having stepped foot in a gay bar, material that could last them goodness knows how long? He guesses they’ll see. It might be nothing, he reminds himself. He’s sure the lads will tease them for going out on a work night but maybe that will be it. They don’t know otherwise, not yet, he tells himself. The dread crawling up his spine suggests he isn’t convinced.

~

George, Ben, Jonny, and Jordan rejoin Tigers at lunch, Dan the first to spot them.

“Here they are lads,” Coley says loudly. “Getting in four hours late with a hangover, let’s make a noise for our England players!”

George winces as the squad oblige, laughing and hollering to accompany the banging on their tables, the stamping of their feet. He doesn’t have a hangover, but if they continue much longer he’s pretty sure he’ll end up with a headache within thirty seconds.

Luckily the guys don’t have the stamina for all that, giving up quickly and leaving them to collect their lunch with a minimum of cat calling. George would breathe a sigh of relief if he didn’t find himself having to join Gareth Owen’s table for lunch, the last seat left. He can’t blame Jordan for avoiding it when Gareth had been - has been - one of the worst at pestering him, only wishes he’d been able to do the same. 

“How was your night?” Manu asks. “I think I’m lucky I was injured!” he laughs, shaking his head. “Not sure how I’d’ve got on.”

George smiles at him, brittle. He hates that he’s been put on edge just by the company, but he can’t help the tension thrumming through him. “It was a good night,” he says deliberately.

“Good for Faz, I guess,” Gareth waggles his eyebrows.

George tries to hold his smile as he shakes his head, tries not to let it transition into a straight up bearing of teeth. “You know the Saracens lot, they love a party,” he deflects. Gareth does not know the Saracens lot, will never be close enough to their league to interact with them, but he laughs along with Manu nonetheless.

“That’s not really what I meant,” Gareth clarifies, as if George hadn’t just done him a favour. “Guess he must have got a lot of attention in there, hey, must have liked it?”

“Oh,” George widens his eyes, affects surprise. “Oh, no - Owen’s got a boyfriend. There was nothing like that going on - and the people in there were really polite - I think whoever organised it must have sorted out some no selfie policy, unless the club did it themselves.”

“Guess there was nothing for your girlfriend to worry about either, Fordy,” Manu teases.

“Hey, that’s a reason to go to a gay bar!” Gareth exclaims. “Hard to get in trouble there.”

“I’m sure you could manage it, my man!” Manu tells him. “But I think we’ll stick to regular bars here.”

The two of them laugh, and Manu asks after the state of the England team. The topic closes. 

George rolls his shoulders, trying to work the tension out. He thinks of Owen, on the floor, the freedom with which he’d danced. Worth it, he tells himself.

~

George checks his phone on leaving training to find that Owen is done for the day too, has already texted asking for a call. He tells Owen he’s on his way, wastes no time in calling the second he gets in the door. Owen takes a few minutes to pick up, George half way to getting in his pajamas - it’s been a day, a day he is ready to leave behind him - when he does so. 

“Hello to you too,” Owen greets, his tone heavy with suggestion.

George grins, the first time in hours he’s been able to respond like that to that tone, even Kyle’s attempt at privately asking how they’d spent Owen’s birthday resulting in a snapped response. He needs to apologise to Kyle for that, George reminds himself. It’s not Kyle’s fault he and Owen had had so little time alone, not Kyle’s fault George had been so on edge.

“I thought you were taking it off,” Owen teases, as George slips a jumper over his head.

“If you want,” George shrugs, uncaring. “Might get a bit chilly though.”

Owen laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t want you freezing because of me, nice as the thought is.”

“Very kind,” George replies, sarcasm heavy, to make Owen smile again.

“How’ve Tigers been?” Owen asks, face tight - so they’re not even going to talk about the fact that the story got out, not going to waste time on that. They could speculate for hours about who it might have been, if the leak was direct from England to the media or less deliberate. George is just as glad not to, knowing they’re unlikely to ever get the answer.

George blows out a breath. “Not too bad,” he decides cautiously. “Bit of ribbing, of course, but I hope they might’ve got it out of their systems now. Nothing - malicious,” he decides. If they have, in fact, got it out of their systems today, George will think the encounter a success. “Sarries?”

Owen just shrugs. “We went out to gay bars a few times last season, they know it’s nothing different. Bit of teasing about going out on a work night, nothing more.”

“Lucky you,” George grumbles.

Owen smiles, but it’s small, and short lived. 

“You read the story?” George prompts.

Owen smiles again, brittle this time. “Yeah.”

“It’s bullshit, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, no big England drama like they tried to make out.”

Owen shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”

George bites his lip, not wanting to push Owen when he’s already tense, but wanting him to open up all the same. He imagines it hasn’t helped that they had a meeting about England’s image, the responsibility of representing England well, not bringing the club into disrepute, last thing Monday afternoon.

“Jamie actually apologised to me,” Owen says, after a moment. “Said he never meant to cause trouble, anything like that.”

“It’s not his fault,” George protests, instinctive. 

“That’s what I told him,” Owen says. “He was - they were - trying to do something for me - and it was a good night, I appreciated that. England PR haven’t come down on either me or him yet, so I’m guessing they know that too.”

“It’s no one’s fault but the fucking Daily Mail’s that the story was written,” George fumes. “Bunch of idiots. If anything, it’s - it’s community outreach,” George hits on. “They should be praising it, not leaning in to people’s homophobia to generate a scandal.”

Owen smiles ruefully. “Maro did dig out one story saying that, to cheer Jinx up. But he only found one, and it’s spread well beyond the Mail now,” Owen goes on. “Less of the spin, but a bunch of sports places have picked up on it. A night out for my birthday - is that an appropriate end of training? Should we all have been tucked up in bed, being respectful of our Premiership clubs?”

George scoffs. “Sounds like the same spin. Half the lads have drunk more than that at Pennyhill after matches.”

“I know that,” Owen shrugs. “But that’s not the story the media want to tell.”

“It was a good night,” George reminds Owen gently. “We had a good dance, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen smiles, genuinely this time, soft. “I wasn’t sure you’d go for it.”

George shrugs. “Everyone was - it was good cover.”

Owen nods acknowledgement.

“And I wanted to,” George tells him. “Seeing you dancing with Maro, Owen -”

“You don’t have to pretend I’m a good dancer,” Owen cuts in.

“You’re fine,” George protests. “But you looked so - free. I can see why that guy took that picture. You looked so _happy_ \- how could I resist getting close to you, when you looked like that?”

Owen is blushing now, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, voice low.

“And it was a bit more time to ourselves, too,” George smiles sadly.

“Didn’t get much of that,” Owen agrees.

“You playing at home this week?”

“Yeah - family coming over for a belated birthday thing.”

“Right,” George sighs. He’d known that. And he can’t come, because his match is on Sunday. “Give them my love.”

“Of course,” Owen agrees. “I’m sure they’ll send the same back.”

George smiles weakly. It’s not the same as seeing them, not the same as seeing Owen, but he supposes it’ll have to do. Before he knows it it’ll be England camp again, he tells himself. Him and Owen together every day - and, with the single rooms at Pennyhill, actually able to _see_ each other.

“I was thinking,” Owen interrupts George’s thoughts. “You’re at Twickenham, the week after next, yeah?”

“And you’re at the Stoop,” George agrees, remembering. They’ll be so close, not even a mile apart, and then George will have to board the Tigers team bus home, away, likely before Owen has even started playing. 

“Maybe you could come to the match? Then stay at mine after?”

George blinks. “You’re a genius,” he declares. Attending Sarries’ match is a perfect excuse to miss the trip home. “Should probably get some more Tigers involved, but they’ll go for it,” he’s thinking quickly now. “Can’t see Geordan saying no to us arranging our own hotel rooms, so as long as I don’t let myself get dragged into sharing -”

“You better not,” Owen grins.

George laughs. “Fuck it, I can get the train back up here that Monday morning, too, get Joe to pick me up from the station or something, it’s not _that_ far.”

“Yeah?” Owen’s grin turns eager.

“Yeah,” George nods. “I miss you so much.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Owen teases.

“So you don’t miss me?” George raises an eyebrow. He’d felt ridiculous saying it, but even with Owen’s teasing he doesn’t think he’s alone. Spending the weekend with Owen while barely able to talk to properly, barely able to touch - it had only highlighted everything he’d been missing with the distance, only made things worse.

Owen heaves a gusty sigh. “So much,” he admits.

George bites his lip - he hadn’t meant to turn the tone of conversation that much. “Honestly, you should be less good at rugby,” he says lightly. “Stop being so important, stop having to share with the captain, and you could share with me again. You’re just too good.”

Owen laughs a little. “Yeah? I think if I was less good I’d be out the squad, not seeing you at all, but I can try if you like?”

George scoffs. “You’ve got a way to go before you’d be out the squad. So yeah, new target for the next England match - be less good.”

Owen laughs again, harder this time. “Right - I’ll tell Eddie that’s my goal for the internationals, shall I?”

George nods. “I mean, we’ll be at Pennyhill by the matches -”

“Back in single rooms,” Owen interrupts, with George’s exact thoughts.

George flashes him a grin “- so that’ll be fine,” he goes on. “Maybe you could just tell him before we fly off to Portugal, so those villas are sorted?”

“I could ask him to put us together,” Owen muses. “It’s not - I could.”

“With what excuse?” George frowns.

“That you get it. With the truth, just not all of it. That you’re the one I can talk to best, that I’m one of the only ones you can talk to.”

George thinks. There’s something there, but the uncertainty with which Owen has delivered the idea shows he’s not the only one who thinks it’s risky. “It’s too much,” he sighs, shaking his head. “We don’t want him to start thinking about what we have in common, looking at us too closely.” People find it strange enough that he and Owen are good friends with their apparent competition over the 10 shirt, goodness knows what impact it would have if someone - if their head coach - started to suspect they might be something more. 

“Yeah,” Owen concedes, agrees. “Pennyhill’s the longest stint anyway, so as long as that’s fine.”

“Yeah,” George nods. “We’ll be okay. I miss you, but - we’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm so sorry it's late! I literally have no good reason - I drafted it yesterday, got caught up watching the return of F1, and just flat out forgot to hit publish /o\ I'll actually set myself a reminder next week - if I'm this prepared again, which currently seems unlikely tbh!
> 
> As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs. I'd love to hear from you either there or in the comments, especially this month as I am attempting to write 40k on this fic for Camp NaNoWriMo and need all the encouragement I can get!!


	19. Chapter 19

“You bringing your partner to partner’s dinner, Fordy?” Greg asks when George walks into training the next day, stress heavy on the word partner. He grins like he’s just made a joke, like there’s something clever in basic repetition. 

“That’s - tonight, isn’t it?” George asks, leaning in to surprise in the hope it might suppress the urge for tension. Everyone’s heard him use the term ‘partner’ by now, he’s sure. He’s just never emphasised the word like that, never drawn attention to his very particular choice of term. But no, he’s focussing on the surprise - it wasn’t even 24 hours ago than Jonny had reminded him about the meal, how had he managed to forget so utterly? 

“I take that as a no, they’re not coming?” Guy Thompson laughs.

“No,” George shakes his head, distracted from replying further, making up some excuse, as he registers Guy’s choice of pronoun. 

Guy has referred to his partner as ‘they’ before, George is sure of it, but in those instances he’s been directly mirroring George’s own choice of words. This time George hasn’t said anything, hasn’t given Guy anything to mirror, and he’s still chosen ‘they’. George has wondered for a while but this is clearest sign he’s had that Guy has noticed that he’s saying, that anyone in the squad has noticed what he’s doing, that they’re happy to play along. 

Or perhaps Guy hasn’t chosen, perhaps he hadn’t even thought about it, and the ambiguity of ‘they’ is simply a part of his concept of George’s partner. 

Those are the options, George thinks. Either Guy has noticed George’s choice of pronouns and is deliberately upholding them, or he hasn’t noticed and is using the same pronouns as George completely subconsciously. George thinks it’s likely the first, but they’re both such good outcomes that he’s honestly not even sure which he would prefer. He’s always sought to shroud Owen in a cloak of obscurity when he speaks of him, to speak in vague terms and lend him protection that way. If Guy - if the squad - have an impression of George’s partner so inextricably linked with that ambiguity that they don’t even seek to ascribe them a gender, well. It’s not an outcome George had really considered before, but he thinks he can be as content with that as the idea that they have noticed him refusing to specify gender and are supporting him in it.

Gareth Owen comes into the conversation, covering George’s prolonged silence. “No girlfriend?” he exclaims, slinging an arm around George’s shoulder. “Fordy! We’d been looking forward to meeting her!”

George laughs, lightly as he can, ducking out of the hold. “They live near London, so - fair bit of travel to get up here, too much on a work night really.”

“But we’re your teammates,” Greg blinks, wide eyed. “Aren’t they chomping at the bit to meet such important people in your life?”

“Funnily enough they had more important things to do than meet a bunch of rugby lads,” George says lightly. He’s pretty sure Owen’s not actually up to much today, but that’s far from the only reason.

“Like what?” Gareth digs, the interest on his face innocent in a way it rarely is when he presses Jordan.

George, somehow, is still safe from him.

“Washing their hair!” Guy steps in, drawing Gareth’s attention.

“You said it, not me,” George tips his head, turning to his kitbag as Gareth’s attention moves on to teasing Guy for his own long hair.

George imagines, for a moment, what it would be like if Owen could come, if he did come. If homophobia weren’t a barrier, if they were openly dating, if everyone knew… 

He still doesn’t think he’d want it. 

With Owen in a different team the banter would be endless, constant ragging on Saracens with Owen required to keep a straight face, constant testing of their commitment to their clubs over each other. Well meaning or not, George doesn’t like the idea of his teammates baiting Owen like that, testing their relationship. The banter when Matt Toomua’s cricketing wife had come along last year had been bad enough, and Matt is significantly more comfortable being the centre of attention off the pitch than either George or Owen. 

Maybe George is being pessimistic, unable to think past the way he imagines the team would react to Owen in this environment, one rife with homophobia. Maybe that’s where the entire defensive impulse, the instinct to protect their relationship, even comes from. Maybe that homophobia is the root of why neither of them are comfortable being the centre of attention in the first place. But it comes back to this - with Owen, George can’t imagine the evening going well, can only foresee the pitfalls that would await them. Without Owen, George can imagine an evening he’ll likely have to endure, sure. But not one he’ll suffer.

~

George finds himself on one of the smaller tables that evening, sharing the meal with Jonny and his wife Sophie, David Denton and his fiancee Shelley, Guy Thompson, and Jake Kerr. They’re all dressed up as per the black tie requirements, David in tartan trousers attracting the majority of the banter for the meal, something George can’t imagine courting that way. The meal itself is good, more filling than they typically get at these events - as if for once someone has remembered that they are meant to be feeding rugby players.

George can’t claim that the conversation is particularly engaging, but neither is it stilted and forced as he’s so often experienced at these meals. Guy is the first to leave the table once they’re finished, heading off to do social rounds like a good rookie, integrating himself in the squad. George should do the same, he knows, feeling a twinge of guilt when Jake follows Guy shortly after. Just five more minutes, George promises himself, the same promise Owen makes whenever George wants to get up in the morning. Five minutes of comfort, then he’ll force himself to attend to his duties. 

George tunes back into the conversation just in time as David Denton’s fiancee turns to him. 

“Couldn’t your girlfriend make it tonight, George?” Shelley asks politely - his own fault for referencing his partner in a story earlier. He’s gotten so used to doing so that he’d forgotten his plan not to bring Owen up tonight. There’s no pay off here, after all, he gets no reward for taking what have now become habitual risks. 

George is about to explain Owen’s absence, when -

“Partner,” David corrects, entirely absently.

George freezes, eyes snapping to David a moment after Shelley’s. David doesn’t appear to recognise the significance what he’s done, continuing the conversation he had been having with Jonny across the table as if nothing in particular has happened. Jonny hasn’t noticed either. George’s eyes dart around the table - Sophie has noticed, her eyes wide when George meets them. Shelley is looking at David’s back, but when she turns to George her face is perfectly smooth. 

“Your partner, sorry,” Shelley amends with a smile. 

“Uh,” George clears his throat. “No,” he tells her. If she’s not going to react - because she doesn’t appreciate the specifics of the distinction? Because she doesn’t think it’s a big deal? - then neither will he. “No, my partner lives down near London,” he explains. “And they’re pretty busy - it’s a long way to come just for an evening, you know?”

“Your partner was wise to get out of it,” Sophie smiles at George widely, winking. 

George forces a smile back. Has Sophie recovered so quickly because she knew already? Had Jonny told her last season, the way George had feared? Is that why she’d even noticed, when no one else seems to have? Or has she decided the distinction must be unimportant? Has she decided it must not relate to gender, to George’s sexuality, if George can continue the conversation calmly? The possibilities rattle around in George’s head, forming almost faster than he can consider them.

“What are you saying?” Shelley feigns offence. “Are you not having a good time with us? This is a quality table.”

“It is,” Sophie agrees readily. “It’s the small talk for the rest of the night that I’m not looking forward to.”

“Oi, I heard that,” Ben’s wife Charlotte drops into Guy’s empty seat, Ben hovering at her shoulder.

“Speaking of, I better do the rounds,” George grimaces, clapping Ben on the shoulder as he stands. His full five minutes of comfort haven’t passed, but neither had they truly begun. He’d rather move, expend some energy, than linger in the wake of that conversation.

George makes it around two more tables without further incident. There are more questions about his partner, then about his girlfriend, but nothing that causes him to hesitate. He didn’t realise just how much the lads - and by extension their partners - had been looking forward to meeting his partner. He’s not strictly sure he’s comfortable with the revelation.

As he moves on from Kyle’s table George spots Jordan leaning against a table, sipping a beer as he surveys the room. He looks content, but George heads over to keep him company anyway. He’s glad he has when Mike Fitzgerald appears, slinging an arm around Jordan.

“Jord! My man!” Fitz shakes Jordan a little, ignoring the way he’s leaning away. “You all on your lonesome?”

“Was chatting with Whitey before he went to get another round of drinks, thought I’d people watch for a bit,” Jordan explains, managing to pull himself away without appearing rude.

“Mind if I join the people watching?” George asks, smiling, settling against the table himself, resisting a grimace as he raises his own beer to his lips and his suit jacket pulls tight over his shoulders. 

Jordan smiles at him briefly before dropping his eyes to the floor, and George almost sighs. Where’s that bright, cheerful lad from two nights before gone? Being quiet is all well and good - George should know - but it’s the nerves that break George’s heart. Jordan had seemed comfortable with George the day before, comfortable even when George had winked at him in the club, but now he’s back to shy. What could have happened to put Jordan back on edge? Is it as simple as their company? It probably is, George concedes, unbuttoning his top button. 

“Ah, of course - we’re all going stag tonight!” Mike suddenly realises. “I couldn’t pick,” he winks.

George sincerely doubts that, flicks a glance that says as much at Jordan, only to find him just looking away, eyes dropping from George’s face.

“I know your girl’s in London, Fordy -”

George registers Jordan’s eyes returning to his face, doesn’t let himself react to the assumption.

“- but how about you, Jordan?” Fitz asks, attracting Jordan’s attention. “I know you were single back at the start of the season, but you didn’t get to know anyone on that England night out, huh?”

It could be a simple enquiry, the same way it had been when Gareth Owen had asked about George’s ‘girlfriend’. It’s not.

George looks to Jordan - his jaw is working, but the way he’s staring at the floor gives no other indication that he intends to respond.

“Yeah, I saw you chatting with Tom Curry,” George intervenes. Jordan’s head snaps to him, body relaxing when he finishes the sentence with Tom’s name. George would feel offended that Jordan thinks he’d be joining in with Fitz, but he remembers being there too much. “How’d you find him? I roomed with him in Argentina, think he’s a good kid.”

“Yeah,” Jordan nods agreement, straightening as he realises George is on his side. “I mean, I didn’t so much think he was a kid, he’s only about two months younger than me -”

George grins, sheepish, in acceptance of his misstep.

“- but I know him through juniors a fair bit - Ben more, but yeah. We get on.”

“Maybe you should have brought him, if you don’t have a girlfriend,” Mike grins sharply. “That could have really spiced up the evening.” 

George glances to his side at where Jordan is back to staring at the floor, opens his mouth to say - something, anything to put Mike off. Before he can worry about what that might be there’s a bellow of ‘Fitz!’ across the room, Mike leaving them both with a toast of his beer. 

George heaves a sigh of relief. He wishes someone - Gareth, he sees as he watches Mike leave - had wanted Fitz about 30 seconds earlier, but at least he hadn’t had to respond, only has the first issue to deal with. “They still pestering you?” George asks Jordan, not looking at him, wondering if that might make things easier.

Jordan echoes George’s sigh, slumping back against the table. Their sides press together, and Jordan hurriedly moves away. “Not really,” he says weakly.

George fixes him with a look, unimpressed.

“It’s just Fitz, really,” Jordan expands. “Gareth Owen too - no one else seems to care, anymore, some of them tell them to back off. It’s better.”

George takes a swig of his drink. “We can get Tom to talk to them,” he offers.

“No,” Jordan shakes his head, immediate. “It’s not - I mean, I don’t -” he sighs. “I’m just trying not to give them a reaction, but - d’you think it would help?” he asks, turning to look George in the eyes. “Standing up to them, making a thing of it - do you think it would actually help?” Jordan asks, eyes appealing. 

George sighs heavily. “I don’t know,” he admits, clapping Jordan on the shoulder. He’s never summoned up the courage to do it, after all. “I don’t know.”

They remain side by side, in silence, for long moments, George trying to come up with something, anything, that he can say to make it better for Jordan. 

“I - I did get to know someone, out in Bristol,” Jordan admits.

George glances at him, finds him talking to his shoelaces. “I saw,” he confirms, taking his gaze off Jordan. “Looked like you were having a good chat, a good time.”

“Yeah,” Jordan admits, not so quiet that George can’t hear the smile in it.

“I always liked going to gay bars, with Bath,” George tells him.

“Yeah?”

It’s Jordan’s turn to glance at George quickly, George’s turn to look at his shoes.

What can he say, what’s _safe_? Jordan already knows he’d liked going to queer bars, they’d had that conversation in the car with Ben and Jonny, yet George still feels tense raising the subject. He doesn’t want to push, if Jordan is queer the way Fitz so clearly thinks, doesn’t want to pressure him to talk about things he might not be ready to. But Jordan did just admit to meeting a guy in a gay bar, after being questioned about it in a clearly suggestive manner - maybe he’s ready for a more direct address. The only question remaining is whether or not George is.

“It felt - safer,” George gets out, the deepest truth he has. He opens his mouth for more, but before he can get words out Jonny appears.

“Alright there lads?” he asks, leaning into George’s other side.

“Yeah,” George says on an exhale. “You?” he asks, when Jordan has nodded. “You lost Soph?”

“She’s over there,” Jonny nods to what looks to be primarily a Youngs’ family group. “You lost yours?”

“I know where they are,” George smiles, thinking back to the selfie Owen had sent of him snuggling into bed - the caption ‘Jealous?’, but the small text on the pillow next to him reading ‘miss you’. He sighs.

“Missing them?” Jonny asks, smile sympathetic. 

“Jealous they’re in bed!” George attempts to lighten the conversation, look less pathetic.

“Where you’d like to be, is that it?” Jonny leers.

George just laughs, not exactly able to deny it. 

Sophie is leading the Youngs’ family to them by this point.

“Think she’s missing you?” George nods to where they’re approaching.

“Think she thinks we look miserable,” Jonny says, not looking away from where Sophie is approaching.

“We’re not miserable, are we, Jordan?” George prompts.

Jordan eyes George suspiciously. “You sounded it, a second ago. Missing your - partner.”

“Oi!” George protests.

“We teasing Fordy?” Ben asks. “Good stuff,” he nods approvingly, reaching out to ruffle Jonny and Jordan’s hair. “Keep him in check.”

George just rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Tom,” he catches Tom’s attention, eager to move the conversation on. “You reckon Geordie’d let a few of us miss the bus home after our Saints match, to watch the Sarries-Quins game? They’re kicking off at 7:30, at the Stoop?”

Tom shrugs. “Don’t see why not. Might depend how much you want him to get on sorting tickets for you, hotels, stuff like that.”

“Yeah, I thought we’d sort overnight arrangements ourselves,” George says hurriedly, wanting to make that clear immediately. “And it’s not like getting a train back’ll be hard,” he shrugs. 

“I hate trains,” Ben butts in from the conversation he had been continuing with Jonny and Sophie.

“Consider yourself uninvited then,” George shrugs.

“What from? I want to be invited, Fordy!” Ben whines.

“Thinking about going to see Sarries play Quins at the Stoop, after our match at Twickenham,” George explains. “Thought it might be a good match, a good end to the day.”

“Yeah, sure, more rugby - always here for more rugby!” Ben grins. “Jonny,” Ben pokes him in the spine. “You up for this?”

“What now?” Jonny asks, longsuffering, rubbing his back.

“It’s Fordy’s idea,” Ben begins.

“Oh, well if it’s not yours, probably,” Jonny says, turning back to his conversation.

It’s delivered so deadpan that Ben stands stock still for a minute, opening and closing his mouth until Jordan bursts into peels of laughter. 

George smiles at Jordan fondly, smoothing his expression out when Jordan catches his eye, ducks his head. “You wanna come?” he asks, removing himself from the argument Ben is sure to cause now.

“What?” Jordan blinks at him.

“I don’t know if you heard - trip to see Harlequins-Saracens at the Stoop, after our match at Twickenham next week. We’ll have to arrange all our own travel back, hotel rooms if anyone wants to stay overnight - and I haven’t actually asked Geordie for permission to skip the bus yet,” George confesses with an exaggerated wince. “But - you up for it?”

“Me?” Jordan blinks.

“Of course,” George smiles easily. “You know lads on both teams better than a lot of guys here.”

Jordan smiles, slow and growing. “Sure,” he agrees. 

“Hey,” Jonny turns to George, abandoning Ben mid argument if the consternation on his face is anything to go by. “Doesn’t your partner live in London?”

“Near enough, yeah,” George shrugs.

“George Ford. Have you orchestrated this whole thing just to get a night in London?” Ben demands, immediately over Jonny ditching him mid conversation when faced with the prospect of fresh teasing.

“No,” George claims - there’s the day after, too, and the match itself.

“That’s the way you make things like this work,” Sophie nods approvingly.

George smiles at her. “We try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of Owen this chapter, I hope you enjoyed regardless! I'd say it's a minor miracle that I remembered to post on time this weekend with the F1 quali delayed and even more distracting than last week, but tbh it's all down to the reminder alarm I set, not any improvement in memory, and certainly not a lack of interest. Given how F1 has started off I'm now very excited by the idea of rugby following their lead of an appropriately ridiculous 2020 return - not long to wait and find out now!
> 
> As always I can also be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale), where I was updating my Camp NaNo total daily until, uh, I stopped writing anything for it?? But hopefully I will continue doing so at some point. I also have both a [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblr, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	20. Chapter 20

The week feels short after losing a day and a half to England camp, the Sale match arriving faster than George is prepared for - but they get the win, and that’s all that matters. It had been a scrappy game, no performance to be proud of, but they’d managed to pull out a victory at home. It’s a relief to exorcise the demons of last week, the Welford Road dressing room buzzing with excitement post match. George lets himself be drawn in easily, despite his reservations about the way they’d played - it’s nice to have something to celebrate for a change.

Once the dressing room festivities are over George makes his way to Joe’s house for a family dinner, glad they won’t have a loss hanging over the meal. He’d missed out on the meal last week due to England camp, can only imagine the discussion such a poor match had inspired, though perhaps without he and his dad amplifying each other’s worst workaholic habits it might not have been too extreme. George doesn’t think the win will stop them from criticising Leicester at all this week, not with so much material still available, but at least it might feel slightly less urgent. 

When they arrive at Joe’s all seven of them pile into the kitchen to dish out the takeaway they’d picked up on the drive home, but George’s parents quickly usher him away. They claim George’s hard work during the match has earnt him a seat on the sofa, and he takes the excuse eagerly before the arguments start. Joe follows George to the lounge, carrying Kobe in one arm and Kobe’s highchair in another, setting him up as George flops onto the sofa, sinking immediately into the comfort.

“Alright there?” Joe asks.

“Yeah,” George sighs. “Scrappy match,” he grimaces, rubbing at his shoulder.

Joe hums agreement, distracted by Kobe starting to fuss.

George takes the opportunity to slip his phone out, check for Owen’s post match message. Sure enough, there are congratulations waiting, and George can’t help but smile at the reliability of it all. He has messages from Owen’s family, too, where the lot of them had watched the game together at their belated celebration of Owen’s birthday. George feels his smile grow, at the image, the fact that they’d cared enough to make time. 

Connie and Jacob come into the room before George can send off any replies, Jacob carrying drinks and Connie Kobe’s food, both of them shamefaced.

“Did you get kicked out?” Joe asks, already laughing, as Connie drops into the seat next to him.

“Maybe,” she mutters.

“This always happens,” Jacob complains, rolling his eyes. “They should just tell us they don’t want our help at the start, rather than get annoyed the instant someone picks up the wrong spoon or whatever.”

“You’re equally capable of just not helping, you know,” George points out.

“What, so they can get annoyed about that?” Jacob asks. “I’m not stupid.”

“I meant to just get Kobe’s things,” Connie sighs. “Still managed to get in the way.”

“It’s your house, surely they’re the ones in your way?” George says.

Connie levels him with a flat look. “I know you missed last week, but I know you know what they’re like.”

George shrugs acceptance - he knows how particular his dad can be, and his mum’s not much worse when she’s hungry. 

“How was last week, anyway, George?” Jacob asks. “I saw the pictures - did you lads have a good night out for Owen’s birthday?” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

George arches an eyebrow back - it’s a good thing it’s been a few days since the article came out, enough distance from the malicious suggestions of the Daily Mail to allow him to relax into teasing suggestion from his family. “Well, we managed to sneak a kiss, so that was nice,” he bats back.

“Aww,” Jacob coos.

“Ugh, no, if you shared a room I don’t want to hear about it!” Joe protests.

George rolls his eyes. “Nah, Owen’s still too important for the likes of me, he was sharing with Dylan again.”

“Who d’you think Eddie will pick as captain, for the internationals?” Connie asks, curious.

George shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “He’s treating them pretty much equal at the moment, though I think Owen expected things to go back to normal after South Africa. We’ll see, I guess.” He glances at his phone, instinctive.

“Hang on,” Jacob waves an arm to capture everyone’s attention. “Can we go back to you guys apparently celebrating Owen’s birthday with a single kiss?” 

Joe blinks at George, looking up from entertaining Kobe. “That’s sad, dude.”

“Thanks,” George bites out. He knows.

“I hope you got him a better present than that,” Connie teases.

George shrugs. “Just a watch,” he tells them. “But he wore it on the night out, so hopefully he liked it?”

“What, did he not tell you when he opened it?” Jacob scoffs.

“I barely managed to give Owen his present before Elliot crashed our kicking session, didn’t actually get to see him open it,” George grimaces. “He did say he liked it, in the club,” he remembers.

“You didn’t see him any other time?” Connie frowns.

George shrugs awkwardly. “Not without half the squad there listening in, no. He must’ve had some time alone in his room to open my present, I guess, but Dylan already found me there last Bristol camp, don’t want him to start questioning why I’m always about.”

“Food’s ready!” George’s dad comes in carrying two plates. “No thanks to you ungrateful swines.”

“Hey!” Jacob protests, relaxing when he sees the teasing glint in their dad’s eye. “Ha ha,” he says sarcastically, taking the plate when Dad hands it over.

George takes the second one, smiling. “Thanks, Dad.”

“That’s more like it,” his dad says approvingly, winking at George when the others groan complaints.

“Some of us have worked for our food,” George tells them, laying on an air of superiority, as Joe follows his dad back out to bring in the rest of the plates.

“Hard work, too,” Jacob teases.

George rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah.”

There’s quiet for a few minutes, absent conversation, as they focus on demolishing the food in front of them.

George’s phone buzzes - another message from Owen. He unlocks it without thinking.

“No phones at the table,” his mum reminds him pointedly.

George smiles at her cheekily, “Not at a table.”

She sighs indulgently, shaking her head but offering no further protest. When the rest of the family continue their conversation George takes that as permission, reading Owen’s message.

“Shit,” George mutters under his breath at the news of Brad’s need for yet another surgery after getting kicked in the face in Saracens’ rampant victory over Bath the day before.

“Alright?” Joe checks.

“Yeah,” George shakes his head, locking his phone again. He’ll reply to Owen in a bit - Owen will understand the delay, for family. “Just Owen letting me know he’s gonna be captain for the Quins match next week; Brad took a boot to the face against Bath, needs surgery to stick some more metal in there.”

“Surprised there’s a spot in his face that isn’t already reinforced,” Jacob jokes.

George laughs agreement, his eyes catching on movement as Connie reaches out to squeeze Joe’s arm.

“I don’t know how his family handle it,” she says, her tone joking. 

Joe covers Connie’s hand with his own, offering comfort. George casts his eyes back to his food.

“If anything the Quins match’ll be more dangerous,” his dad laughs. “Faz’d better watch out, if he’s captain and fly half - makes a good target.”

George bites his lip. His dad’s not wrong. They’ve been lucky, both of them, so far in their careers. They’ve had injuries, sure, but nothing anything like what Brad’s gone through.

“He better not get himself injured,” George says lightly. “He’ll ruin all our plans.”

“Oh, are you seeing Owen next weekend?” his mum asks.

George nods. “Gonna stay down in Twickenham and watch the Sarries-Quins match with a few other Tigers, got permission from Geordie yesterday,” he explains. “Then we’ll go back to his for the rest of the weekend and I’ll catch the train back up on Monday morning.” George can’t help the smile breaking through at the thought of it - time with Owen, time _alone_ with Owen. He can’t wait. 

“Alright, you just saw him last week, no need to get so excited,” Joe teases.

George rolls his eyes. “England camp hardly counts,” he dismisses. Seeing Owen with the other England boys is nice, of course it is, but it’s not the same. They can joke around, and they can touch to an extent, but it always has to be controlled. When they’re alone they don’t have to be; alone with Owen is the place George controls himself least. He misses that every bit as much as he misses the freedom to touch.

“It was Owen’s birthday over camp, wasn’t it?” his dad remembers. “How was that?”

“Frustrating,” George says wryly, glancing at his siblings, who have already sat through one iteration of this conversation. “No, it was good,” he amends, shaking his head. It had been frustrating, to not see Owen as much as he would have liked, but that’s a simple fact of the season whether they’re physically close or not. It had been good, too, the time they’d shared in the club, privacy stolen under the very noses of their teammates. “The night out was good - Jamie and Elliot organised it, kinda wish they’d pre-warned us - Owen - about the venue, but it turned out okay.” George smiles at the memory of his and Owen’s last dance. “Got a couple of dances in, found an excuse to kiss him, can’t complain.” Yeah, that had been more than okay.

“What, you kissed him in that club?” Joe demands. “In public?”

“It was more private than any time we got in camp,” George half laughs, too caught up in the memory to be bitter about that fact.

“That was reckless, George,” his dad says sternly.

George looks up, surprised by the tone, finds both his parents frowning. He flicks his eyes around his siblings - Jacob is looking around with equal bemusement, Joe seems surprised, and Connie’s frown is more one of concern. At least Kobe doesn’t seem interested, George reflects, his shoulders creeping up with all the eyes on him.

“Weren’t there pictures from the club in the newspaper the next day? There were members of the public there, weren’t there?” his mum asks.

“Fuck, were there really?” George affects surprise. “I had no idea.” 

Jacob laughs but his dad doesn’t look at all impressed. “George,” he says firmly. 

“What?” George demands. “D’you think I didn’t know that? That I didn’t consider it? I knew exactly where we were, I thought about the risks, and I chose to take them.”

“And what would you have done if someone had taken a photo? If you’d been caught?” his dad pushes.

“Brushed it off - because I kissed him on the _cheek_ , after about five other lads had done the same!” George retorts. “I’m not stupid - I know better than the rest of you what can be passed off as a joke, what can’t. I’ve spent my whole life learning things like that; I’ve had to. Was it reckless? Honestly, yeah, probably. We could have talked our way out of it if photos had got out, but it wouldn’t have been fun. Still - it was worth the risk.” 

George’s declaration does little to lighten his dad’s frown, though the rest of the family look more understanding. George hopes one of them might move the conversation on, but his dad opens his mouth before they can. “We’re only concerned for you,” he says, scolding. “It’s safer for you to keep your relationship behind closed doors, you know that.”

If his tone hadn’t already put George’s back up those words certainly would have done. He snorts laughter, figures it’s one of his safer options. “Our relationship is anywhere we are, we can’t just turn it off - much as we spend half our fucking lives trying to.” George takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “If we had had been closed doors available, yeah, I might not have done it. But where? My room? His room? With our roommates free to come in at any second? That club was the most private time we got, loud and crowded like that. It was Owen’s birthday and I’d barely seen him for an hour, not really, not without the rest of the squad sticking their noses in - I made the most of the time we had.”

“That’s the price you pay,” his mum says. She sounds regretful, but George is wound up now.

“The price we pay?” he repeats. “For what? Being queer? Because it’s not the price for being England players, I’ve seen girlfriends ‘snuck in’ mid-camp for birthdays before, the coaches well aware and turning a blind eye, the lads giving them time alone. Me and Owen didn’t get any of that - we tried to get an early kicking session in alone and Elliot came along within five minutes, we couldn’t go to either of our rooms, we got _nothing_. 

“So yeah, I kissed Owen in public - because it was the only chance we got. I was happy to get it, happy when the lads provided the excuse. It was all we got, all weekend, and it turned out fine. I won’t regret it.” 

“Your call,” Jacob says, with a shrug, before anyone else can speak.

“Thank you,” George sighs, slumping back in his seat, now a little ashamed of his rant.

“Alright,” Connie claps her hands together. “The washing up’s only getting worse as it all dries on while we sit here, time to move.”

George knows full well Joe and Connie have a dishwasher that he’s sure can handle it, but he grabs the excuse with both hands. “I’ll go,” he mutters, standing and taking his own plate out to the kitchen, running a sink full of water so he doesn’t have to hear the soft rumble of his family talking about him behind his back.

“Fuck,” George sighs, pulling his phone out again. He really hadn’t meant to snap, but his parents’ tone had got under his skin, and Joe’s hadn’t been much better. He quickly thanks Owen for the congratulations, passes on his own about Owen’s upcoming match at captain and sends good wishes to Brad and Owen’s family, too, knowing he doesn’t currently have time to reply to them all individually. If George hadn’t had a Sunday match he’d’ve been with them right now - but he had, so visiting Owen hadn’t been an option. It so rarely is.

Footsteps sound behind him, George turning to see Jacob carrying the rest of the family’s plates.

“Alright?” he smiles.

“Yeah,” Jacob replies. “You bitching to Owen about us?” he asks, nodding to the phone in George’s hand

“No,” George snaps. “Sorry,” he amends, when Jacob raises an amused eyebrow. “Thought about it, didn’t think it would help,” he admits with a rueful smile.

Jacob shrugs, putting the plates down next to George. “Your call.”

“Glad someone thinks I can run my own life.”

Jacob shrugs again. “It’s you it affects most anyway, you know? No point us getting het up over it.”

“Tell that to mum and dad,” George says wryly.

“I did,” Jacob says. “Mum wants to apologise - I mean, come help with the washing up.”

George laughs, despite himself, as Jacob grins. 

“She sent me to test out if you’d rather be left alone.”

George sighs. “She can help,” he allows.

“Great,” Jacob smiles at George, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll let her know.”

George rolls his shoulders as he sticks his hands in the warm soapy water, doesn’t turn when his mum walks in the kitchen.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” she offers, taking a tea towel and stepping up besides George.

“They do have a dishwasher,” George points out, sending her a slight smile.

“You’ve run the water now,” his mum replies practically.

They run through the first few items in silence.

“I’m sorry, George,” his mum says.

George immediately shakes his head, the last of the tension draining out of him. “No, I’m sorry,” he offers. “I shouldn’t have got so wound up, it’s just - it’s hard, y’know?”

“I don’t think we do,” his mum says frankly. “I don’t think any of us appreciate how hard your relationship really is.”

“It’s not - it’s not that, it’s not our relationship,” George blinks at her, surprised. “When it’s just the two of us, that’s - it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s everything else that’s hard, when we can’t have that because of -” he waves a hand vaguely, trailing water “- our jobs, society, whatever.”

She nods thoughtfully. “What was it you said? That you have to ‘turn off’ your relationship when you’re with England? I can’t imagine that, I don’t think any of us can.”

“Yeah, and you don’t want to,” George half jokes. “We’ve got a handle on it now, but it was trickylast season, trying to figure out how much distance we should keep between us. Maro actually thought we’d fallen out at the start of the South Africa tour, so we definitely messed that one up! It’s -” George shrugs “- I’m not going to say it’s fine, but we’re on top of it. We know when something’s too far,” he finishes pointedly.

“It sounds like a lot to keep on top of, it’s understandable that you’d get wound up discussing it,” his mum nods.

George sends her a sideways look. “That wasn’t really the problem,” he tells her. Sure, he doesn’t like to dwell on how hard the world can make things for him and Owen, but that hadn’t been what had got his back up.

“No?”

“It was -” George sighs, washes up two more plates as he tries to figure out exactly what the problem had been. “I said I’d kissed Owen, and you guys just assumed I’d done something stupid. You didn’t ask, or wait for details. I doubt it helped that it was the only moment we got together, the only chance we got, but - it was the fact that you thought you needed to tell me off at all, thought you could. I’m not a child anymore,” he reminds his mum gently. “This is my life, it’s me it affects, and it’s something I’ve spent my whole life working through. 

“You might not have known the whole time, but since I was 13 I’ve had to think about what behaviour, what words are acceptable, what I - what we - can get away with in public. I know better than you do where the line is, I think about it - honestly, probably every day. I have to. So all of you assuming I’d’ve done something stupid, thinking you’d be able to judge it better, enough to call me out, without even really asking -” he shrugs a shoulder. “Anyway, that’s probably what wound me up.”

“We’re just concerned, Georgie,” his mum replies softly.

“I know,” George acknowledges, smiling at the nickname he more frequently hears from Owen, and never from anyone other than the two of them. “But I - I’m not going to say I know what I’m doing, I’m not sure it’s possible to, really, we’re in a bit of an unprecedented situation. But while I’m still in the closet to the public, to England, I’m not going to do something stupid, and Owen’s not going to let me. We’re aware of the risks, where the line is, how we behave, always. We’re not going to forget, not even in camp, never mind in a public place. I’m not sure we could.”

His mum leans in to press their hips together at that, and they finish the last of the washing up in silence.

“Georgie!” Connie grins up at him when they return to the lounge.

“Nope,” is all George says.

Connie laughs, “George!”

“Hi,” George smiles at her. “Alright?”

“I’ve had a genius idea!” Connie tells him.

“Yeah?” George prompts, dropping onto the sofa next to Jacob.

“For the match next week, you said you were going to get the train up on Monday morning?”

“Yeah,” George grimaces. “Half 6 is the only one that works, Owen’ll drop me and I’ll get a taxi from the station to training, probably sucker Joe into driving me home after.”

“Oi!” Joe only holds the protest for half a second. “Yeah, alright,” he smiles at George, a touch sheepish - his form of apology for starting the argument earlier, George knows.

George smiles back, makes sure it’s soft enough to convey acceptance.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Connie smiles. “You know I’m coming to the Saints game?”

George nods.

“Your dad was saying he and mum could take Kobe for the day, save me driving down with all his stuff on my own - I thought if I drive your car down you and Owen could have it after the game? Me and Joe can stay in London overnight, get a train up on Sunday. I don’t know how you guys were planning to get to Owen’s but I figured you wouldn’t mind having the car as an extra option, and then you can drive back up here on Monday, wouldn’t have to leave so early.”

“No,” George agrees, blinking at her. “Yeah, Owen was going to get someone to drive his car over to the Stoop, that’d be - that’d be so much better, yeah, thank you. There’s spare tickets for the Quins game - they just gave me a box - so we can definitely do that.”

“We thought we’d have a non-rugby date night, actually,” Joe laughs gently at George’s assumption. “But thanks for the offer.”

“No, I - thank _you_ , seriously,” George says, starting to smile now. Not having to get up so early on Monday will give him and Owen one more lazy morning. It might only be a couple of hours, but George knows they’ll be hours that they treasure.

“The least we can do,” his dad says gruffly, attention fixed where he’s bouncing Kobe on his knee. “You’ve got enough working against you, let us work for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relevant matches for this weekend are:  
> Twickenham, 3pm: Saints 15-23 Leicester (HT: 10-20)  
> Twickenham Stoop, 7pm: Harlequins 20-25 Saracens (HT: 13-9)

George is confident, after Tigers Captain’s Run for the Saints match at Twickenham. They’re a good team, they’ve got a good game plan - they can do this. The whole team seem to be feeling it, practically bouncing off the walls through warm up, only really settling down when Geordie talks them through the arrangements for the tribute to Rob Horne. George winces, remembering the incident. He’d thought nothing of it at the time despite the long injury delay. It had taken only taken a couple of weeks for the rumours to filter through - that Rob Horne had lost the use of his right arm, that he would never get it back. 

Players get hit all the time, get stretchered off - and then it’s nothing, or next to nothing anyway. But not this time. For all the injuries they see George must admit he’s generally cavalier to the risks of the game. He hears about incidents like this, sees their results in the work the club does with Matt Hampson, knows the impact rugby can have on a player’s life, but there’s nothing like nerve damage in a match you played to bring it home.

Still, the squad shake it off fast enough, back to excitement as Tom delivers his speech to round off the Captain’s Run, and George tries to join them. He’s got more reason than most to be excited, after all - he’s seeing Owen tomorrow, finally. Finally getting a whole free day - more than - alone in his partner’s presence for the first time since the offseason, the first time in _months_. 

“You lot all sorted for the Quins game?” Manu asks, as they get changed ready to head back to the hotel - he would have wanted to come, George knows, but for a family event early on the Sunday.

“Yup,” Ben grins. “Got myself a room with Jonny boy here,” he tells Manu, slinging an arm around Jonny’s shoulder.

Jonny shrugs him off at once. “I can’t believe you’ve left me with him,” he glares at George.

George shrugs, unrepentant. “Got a better offer.”

“Oh yeah?” Manu follows up. “What are you up to after the game?”

“My partner lives near London,” George answers. A fair few of the squad know by now but he hadn’t mentioned it around Manu, never quite comfortable with Manu’s unquestioning assumption that he’s dating a woman.

Manu makes a noise of realisation. “So that’s why you organised the whole thing, to get time with your girlfriend,” he grins, teasing. 

George shrugs, attempts an innocent face. “Everyone keeps saying that - I just thought it looked like a good match.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ben rolls his eyes. “Say that again, hiding the grin better. Then maybe we’ll believe you.”

George widens his eyes even further as he slings his kit bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Kyle interrupts with a scoff, “Fordy trying to pretend he’s not excited for the weekend?”

“Oh, I’m excited for the match,” George tells him, true enough. “Both matches.”

“And that’s all, I’m sure,” Ben drawls.

George drops the pretence - he winks, and turns on his heel.

The lads catcall and George lets himself grin as he leaves the changing room, lets himself grin as he makes the familiar walk down the hallways of Twickenham to their team bus. Just over 24 hours, now, and he’ll be seeing Owen again. His team don’t mind, his team are excited for him, even though a good few of them _must_ have figured out that he’s dating a guy. There’s a lot to smile about.

~

Five minutes before kick off the atmosphere is electric, even better than the day before, Tigers buzzing on the dull roar of the Twickenham crowd above their heads. Geordie and Tom have been working all warm up to harness that energy into focus, into passion, a resource their matches have been lacking. George thinks they’ve managed it when he runs out under the familiar Twickenham sky, keeping his mind on that as Rob Horne delivers him the match ball. George knows they’ve managed it Jonny goes down 10 minutes in, replaced by Jordan, and the intensity of the team doesn’t drop. It takes most of the half for their tenacity to pay off, but when it does it’s more than worth the wait, two tries from Ben and Jordan in as many minutes. 

The tables turn after that, Tigers finding themselves on the defence at their own try line - but they’re defending together, their positioning is good, and half time is so close. They hold firm - and David Denton gets sent off with a HIA, giving no argument as he staggers away, and a try slips through. George wonders if the team have been distracted by David’s injury, concerned for their teammate, with the occasion reminding them of just how serious rugby injuries can be. Then he’s jogging back down the tunnel, fixing his thoughts on the game. 

The squad do the same, seemingly spurred into further determination by the leaking of those five points. Half time is focused, the whole team collaborating on discussion of which strategies have been working for them, which haven’t, how they can work to maintain and extend their lead. Even Jonny joins in, his arm in a sling doing nothing to stop the analytical power of his rugby mind. George doesn’t get a chance to ask about his injury but supposes it must not be too bad if the medical team are letting him be surrounded by a bunch of rowdy rugby players. 

David Denton doesn’t join them at half time, and he doesn’t join them on the pitch afterwards. 

The second half is calmer than the first, for all every moment feels heavy with tension as they play through. George kicks one penalty, and Saints’ 70 minute try is the only other score of the half. George is overwhelmingly thankful for that penalty when it leaves Saints eight points behind with 10 minutes to go, rather than five - given the recent performance of the squad George doesn’t think it’s possible to overestimate the importance of that buffer. They hold on tight to that eight point lead, and when the clock goes dead the stadium is ringing with chants of _Tigers_.

George grins his way through the handshakes, happiness he hasn’t felt at Twickenham in too long, happiness he hopes England will soon be able to match. He finds Ben and Jordan together, the two try scorers, being celebrated in the middle of a knot of their ecstatic teammates. George slips in and fusses over Jordan, praising his performance, then turns to give Ben the exact same treatment before he can even feign jealousy. When George works his way out of the throng there are new Tigers celebrating the pair, attention split between the two equally. Jordan is grinning with pride under his teammates’ hands, and something in George’s chest lifts to see it. 

The celebration in the dressing room is raucous, more so than after Tigers’ messy victory over Sale the week before. They still hadn’t delivered a perfect match, but it had been a good match, and a good match in a place like Twickenham feels perfect match. Not even the continued absence of David Denton undercuts the celebration - it’s just a concussion, they’re told on their return to the locker room. But concussion is very rarely a ‘just’, as far as George understands it, and he takes the time to send his good wishes as the rest of the squad start to pass around the beer. The medical staff might not be not worried that it’s anything more, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be worried about.

~

No one seems to want to leave the Tigers dressing room for the Harlequins-Saracens game other than George. As kick off approaches he feels himself starting to get anxious that they might actually miss some of the match, until Tom chivvies them away just in time, insisting that everyone else needs to get on the bus now anyway. George hurries the lot of them to the minibus Harlequins had insisted on getting them for the transfer across the road - George had thought it ridiculous when they’d insisted, an extravagance they could easily do without. He still does, but he also appreciates the speed with which it gets them across to the Stoop on closed roads. 

The minibus takes them all the way to the door of the Harlequins’ stadium, where they’re whisked into restricted areas at once and guided through to their seats, turning heads as they go. They’re taken through so quickly no one approaches them, and George relaxes into the privacy when they’re let into a box reserved just for them. George hadn’t asked for a box, but he’s thankful to have it, knows he’ll appreciate it at half time even as they don’t linger there now, immediately taking their seats.

“How’s the shoulder?” George asks Jonny once everyone is settled in, Jonny between him and Ben on the back row, two rows of their teammates in front separating them from the public.

The executive box means Jonny doesn’t have to hide his grimace when he turns to George. “Not good. It’ll be fine by the Internationals,” he assures George, and Ben too, when Ben turns to him in concern. “But next week -” he shakes his head. “Probably not gonna be fit.”

“The important thing is that it gets better,” George tells him seriously, resiting the urge to bump his shoulder in support - Jonny had insisted on having George between Ben and his injured shoulder when they’d sat down.

Jonny shrugs his good shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s nothing like Rob’s, so - it’s fine.”

While George understands the sentiment he’s not sure it’s quite so simple as that, not sure Jonny should be dismissing his injury quite so lightly - he doubts either the Tigers medical staff or Jonny’s wife, Sophie, would be happy to hear him talking that way.

He opens his mouth to say as much but he’s overwhelmed by the roar of the stadium as the teams run out, couldn’t have made Jonny hear him if he’d tried. And he doesn’t want to try, not now Owen is on the field, instead leaning forward in his seat and picking Owen out easy enough at the start of the Saracens line - captain, for the game, with Brad out injured. Captain, for the derby, for the away leg of the derby, a match his team haven’t won in four years. 

Now the players are out, now Owen is out, George doesn’t want to look away.

~

The match goes by in a blur, one George will ever after only remember in moments -

Lasike goes down with an injury early, like Jonny, like Rob - and he stays down. George stares, caught, as his teammates whisper concern around him. What if that were Owen?

_What if that were Owen?_ If that were Owen down there right down, if that were to be Owen at some point later tonight - what would George do? He couldn’t go down to him. He couldn’t force his way into the changing rooms, the medical areas, couldn’t demand to know how Owen was. He couldn’t even let himself show all the worry he felt, not surrounded by people - friends of theirs - who don’t know about their relationship. He would have to sit tight and wait for Owen - or Andy or Colleen, if it were truly that bad - to let him know what was going on. That would be all he could do, he wouldn’t have the right to do more.

Ben turns to him, eager to share a joke now that an appropriate level of concern has been expressed, and George pushes his spiralling thoughts down ruthlessly. The game goes on -

There’s a fight, then another, players pushing and shoving and feeling every second of the match, the significance of every point, every break. George cranes his neck trying to keep an eye on Owen, often far too close to the middle of things, peering as close as he can to his face and the faces of the players around him to try and be sure that nothing is being said that goes beyond the normal rugby fighting words, that Owen doesn’t reel back, face blank with shock. He doesn’t, hauls his men out of the fights and tries to stay out of them himself, George never seeing the expression he fears. They play on -

Owen nails one kick, then another, George heaving an appreciative sigh as Owen sends yet another tricky penalty perfectly between the uprights.

“You alright there Fordy?” Ben teases, having heard him.

“You don’t need to be jealous, mate,” Jonny assures him, grinning. “We’d rather have you any day.”

George smiles at them both, tight, unable and unwilling to tell them that admiration, not jealousy, was the main reason for his sigh. Would he love to be able to kick like that, with just that touch more reliability? Of course he would. But that pales in comparison to how much he admires what Owen can do, admires the sight of him doing it, is genuinely _pleased_ for Owen that he’s playing so well in a match that means so much to him. A match that is made of more than kicks - 

Danny Care intercepts a Saracens pass, sprints near enough half way down the pitch for a ridiculous try, Owen not quite hot enough on his heels, and George’s teammates are on their feet, cheering him, glad for the performance of their friend. George stands too, a step behind everyone else, applauds politely. He’s happy for Danny, likes Danny, is pleased for him to have put in a performance like this on his 250th Quins cap, but it’s not quite how he wants the match to go.

George sees Jonny noticing his delayed reaction, eying him with concern, and ups the intensity of his applause. It’s one thing to be supporting Saracens, something he’d bantered with Lenny about on the way over - Ben, of course, immediately declaring himself to be supporting Quins. It’s another thing entirely to not support their friends, their teammates, when they play so well, when they score tries, no matter the scoreline, no matter the team. 

Not long after that it’s halftime, the lads quickly heading in to the warmth of their box. George stays behind as the majority make their way out to the attached bar, not wanting to drink ahead of driving back to Owen’s.

“Nothing for you?” Ben asks, getting back with a pint in each hand.

George shakes his head. “Driving to my partner’s, after,” he explains.

Ben nods understanding. “Sensible boy,” he praises. “But I’m going to celebrate Saracens getting stuffed, and Saints getting stuffed - cheers to that!” he goes on, raising his voice.

George winces as their Tigers teammates join the call. Saracens aren’t getting stuffed, and George thinks that’s a bit too generous an assessment of their own match, but it doesn’t seem to be holding anyone else back. 

“You really are supporting Sarries, huh?” Jonny says gently, surprising George where he hadn’t noticed him rejoin the group. He’s also holding a beer, but only the one.

George bites his lip, decides to go with the truth. “It’s Owen, you know?” he says, immediately hears in his voice, sees in the way Jonny’s looking at him, that too much true emotion has leaked into the words. It’s not all in there, not by a long shot, but that doesn’t mean it’s not too much. “And Jinskie, and Maro - all those Sarries England lads, fuck knows there’s millions of them,” he smiles, Jonny joining with laughter. “I like Mike and Danny and Chris, course I do - and Danny’s playing, just - ridiculously well, but -”

“I see how it is,” Ben declares. “You’re loyal to our new captain, our captain of three games - you’ve forgotten Robbo, the time he served.”

“I mean I didn’t play _that_ much under Robbo,” George points out, deciding not to also correct Ben on the number of matches Owen has captained them for - did Ben forget the France match? Never mind that George hadn’t even played that last match in South Africa.

Jonny is still looking at him thoughtfully but Ben is happy enough with the new system of loyalty that he’s invented for George. George lets himself pretend it’s true, plays into Ben’s system, debates which of the captains he should have the most loyalty for. He pretends to feel conflicted beating Saints because of Dylan, and that drags the whole group into debate, Jordan loudly declaring that that’s just not _right_. It doesn’t take long for them to be discussing the matter without his input, leaving George to wander over to the glass front of the room, snap a quick picture.

_cheering you on now_ he sends to Owen, in belated response to the picture Owen had sent him of the screen on the Saracens bus showing his match, the message of support, the congratulations that had followed after. He’d sent a string of heart emojis, in the changing room, one last ‘good luck’, but not had time or privacy for more.

“I’m supporting Owen, too,” Jordan says.

George about leaps from his skin, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket all at once.

“Sorry,” Jordan apologises.

George waves it off. “In my own world,” he smiles.

“With your partner?” Jordan smiles slyly.

So he hadn’t seen the messages, or at least not all of them. George just shrugs, returning the smile. “You’re supporting Owen?” he prompts, with a glance over to where the rest of their teammates are still arguing. Jonny seems checked out of the conversation yet when George meets his eyes he only smiles, doesn’t come over.

Jordan looks back out to the pitch. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know him like you, but - for what he’s done, this summer, coming out - for that, yeah,” he nods, eyes scanning the crowd in front of them.

George hums acknowledgment. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t want to assume too much, scare Jordan off, but on the other hand Jordan seems to be practically asking him to. He knows what that’s like, went through it with his brothers - not being brave enough to say anything direct, not being able to, desperately wanting someone to acknowledge what you’re saying without having to. But George can’t, won’t take the risk that this would be a step too far, a step Jordan’s not ready for, won’t scare him off. “I’m proud of him,” he tells Jordan, neutral as he can make the statement.

“Did you - when did you know?”

“That Owen was gay?” George checks.

Jordan nods, glancing at George.

“He told me when we were in school together,” George informs Jordan, watches his eyes widen. It’s nothing other England players don’t know, after all - George is frankly a little surprised that story isn’t out there yet. “So I was - maybe 13?”

“Really?”

George smiles, remembering. “He was having a bad kicking session, so I bullied the reason why out of him. It didn’t take much,” he adds. “I think he needed it.”

“Yeah,” Jordan looks away from George, back out over the pitch. “I think I get that,” he says. He turns back to George, takes a breath -

“Players!” Ben announces. “Players, coming on the pitch, what are we doing! Come on lads, time to go cheer on our favourite captains!”

And he barges between Jordan and George, showing not a hint of knowing what he was - might have been - interrupting.

George turns back to Jordan with an apologetic grimace but it’s too late, Jordan has already turned tail, fleeing to his seat. George rubs a hand over his face before going to follow, stopped by Jonny’s hand on his shoulder.

“Alright?” Jonny asks, quietly, nodding to Jordan.

George shrugs. “Yeah,” he replies - it's his best guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	22. Chapter 22

George returns to his seat for the second half, glad for the distraction of the tight game.

He smiles, satisfied, as Owen easily sinks a penalty to bring Saracens within a point of Harlequins. Saracens haven’t won at the Stoop in 14 years but they can do this, George knows they can. With Owen leading and Maro fresh from the bench the game is theirs for the taking. And then -

Marcus Smith lines up a penalty, the wind bringing the ball to a halt short of the posts, Joe Marchant seizes it from the air and - fallsbackwards across the try line. The ball breaks his fall more than is deliberately grounded, but the five points count just the same. George curses out the sheer unlikeliness of the event as his teammates holler around him at the same thing, wild, all of them on their feet. 

George has just reluctantly joined the applause when Ben turns to him, eyes shining.

“You have _got_ to set that up for us,” he demands.

George laughs him off, Jonny joining in, and the match continues -

Owen neatly nails another penalty, Saracens only five points behind with 14 minutes to go. They can do this, they _can_ -

And then they do, Billy Vunipola bullying his way through a tackle for a try, _the_ try, to bring Saracens level. George joins the cheers of his teammates, biting back the edge of discomfort.

Billy hasn’t said anything homophobic, not publically or within Saracens, since Owen came out. But George remembers the stories from Owen before then, is far from blind to the distance Billy maintains from Owen - not that Owen minds. It’s subtle, but it’s there. 

Still, George shakes himself. It’s five points for Saracens, for Owen, for the draw. All Owen has to do is play his part, and it’ll be the lead. It’s worth celebrating.

George doesn’t bother to sit as Owen lines up the conversation, biting his lip as he judges the angle from the touchline himself. Owen can score from there, has a history of doing so. It’s not easy, but Owen can do it - and then he does, he sends the ball neatly sailing between the posts. 

George yells, wordless, at the drama of it all, at Owen taking the lead for his team, ignoring Ben groaning two seats away. Are Saracens really going to do this, with a two point lead and ten minutes to go?

Four minutes later Owen sets up for another goal kick, this one simpler. George exhales along with Owen as he gets set, runs though the last stages of his preparations - stages George could, has, seen in his sleep, he knows them so well. George only smirks when Owen nails this one, giving Saracens a five point cushion that George had never doubted.

But five points isn’t enough to be safe, there’s still one breathless restart, five minutes of edge-of-the-seat play to get through before the match is over, before - 

Saracens have won at the Stoop for the first time since 2014. Owen has won, as captain, won a match where the emotion couldn’t have been more clear. 

George is so proud of his partner, so proud of his achievement, that he feels like it’s shining out of him. He knows he gloats, when Ben dramatically concedes their personal rivalry, justifying it with the knowledge that Ben would have done if the situation were reversed.

The team retreat to the warmth of the box to digest the match while awaiting their call to the players’ dressing rooms, which both Harlequins and Saracens players had been eager to arrange as soon as George had secured Tigers’ tickets. George is still keyed up from the match, too antsy to really follow conversation. He texts Owen congratulations instead, despite the very real chance that he might see Owen before Owen next looks at his phone. George bites down on his grin at the thought as a member of staff pops her head in the door.

“If you’d like to come to the dressing rooms, it’s mostly quiet now,” she informs them.

There’s a brief pause while everyone collects jackets and overnight bags before following her through the warren of corridors. They’re in the familiar surroundings of the players area in no time, only passing a scant few lingering Harlequins fans, though George can hear more in the bar.

“I think we’re okay from here, thank you,” Ben tells the staff member warmly, and she takes the dismissal with a smile and a nod.

They reach the home dressing room first, not an area they know particularly well, and Ben raps on the open door a couple of times before leading them in. There’s a murmur of greeting through the Harlequins squad but they’re understandably subdued. George wonders if they shouldn’t leave well enough alone, let Harlequins lick their wounds in peace - he knows he wouldn’t feel up to entertaining visitors after a match like that - but Ben has already crossed the room to Chris, expressing his sympathies, and it would be stranger to leave him there alone. 

So George follows his fellow Tigers, looking around at the space interestedly, and catches Marcus Smith’s gaze. He glances around the room again - everyone else he knows seems to be deep in conversation, so he might as well head over to Marcus, George thinks to himself. He’s spent a fair amount of time with Marcus, him and Owen both, introducing him to the England set up and talking about the game. 

Marcus is downhearted and George tries to be sympathetic, tries to remind Marcus of the many good things he’s done in the match. He thinks he gets through, a little, thinks he helps, but he’s also pretty sure that 80% of Marcus’ attention is on his own, critical, internal monologue, the sense of disappointment from the match, something George understands and frankly wouldn’t expect to be able to break through. 

George’s own thoughts are with Owen, in a changing room mere meters away. He wonders if Owen is drinking, wonders if he’s changed or if he’s still wandering around half naked like most of the Harlequins players. George moves on to talk to Danny Care, complimenting him on his play. Danny takes the praise with grace but is clearly subdued, George feeling deeply uncomfortable sharing the room with his disgruntled friends when he feels so upbeat, when everything in him is itching to get to Owen, to see Owen. It’s been so long, and they’re so close - George can’t bring himself to focus on anything else.

Finally Ben is done with his rounds and herds the team out of the Harlequins changing room. They head to Saracens, George in step with Ben at the front. They hear Saracens before they see the changing room door, and a smile spreads across George’s face at the sound. Hoarse voices chatting too loud, punctuated with laughter, and the unmistakable tone of teasing that is ingrained in rugby banter - that sound will always mean joy, to George. And so does Owen, Owen’s laugh, breaking its way towards them, floating above the chaos of the rest of his teammates. George feels his smile widen, is glad for the rush of impatience that helps him to contain it when Ben pauses at the doorway, again knocking on the door before leading them all through.

They receive a much more enthusiastic welcome in this room, closer to a roar than a murmur, as the Saracens look to pull the new comers into their celebration. George is offered a beer by a player he barely knows before he even manages to set eyes on Owen, refuses it as politely as he can while scanning the room. He lets out a breath as he spots Owen, talking animatedly with Maro. 

There is he. 

George can’t restrain a smile this time, urgency easing as he walks towards his partner, their gazes catching as he does so. George heads straight for Owen as Owen returns his smile, keeping enough awareness of his surroundings to avoid snubbing anyone he knows or bouncing into anyone in the crowded space, but no more. 

He can’t look away. 

Owen glances back to George again and again from his conversation with Maro, not pausing as he does so, not pausing as he pulls his shirt over his head, making progress on getting ready to leave. George doesn’t pause either, can’t let himself. 

George sees men strip every day, ridiculously fit men at that. He had spent his adolescence in and out of changing rooms, sometimes with the boy he was dating, who became the man he was sleeping with, and throughout the whole experience he’s never found anything about them even remotely sexual. For a long period of time he’d found them the opposite, found them intimidating, been far too scared by the notion that someone might think he was looking to be able to appreciate anything he did see. That fear had faded only through exposure, and said exposure is exactly the reason George feels deeply that changing rooms are an entirely non-sexual space. He’s never experienced so much as a flicker of attraction within them; they’re a space that part of his mind simply doesn’t consider.

Owen, shirtless and sweaty, glowing with happiness, cuts through all of that. 

“Congratulations!” George calls when he’s close enough, going with it easily when Owen pulls him into a hug. He grips tight, fingers pressing into Owen’s bare skin, and breathes in. They only hold each other for a beat, can’t get away with more despite how little George wants to give up Owen’s warmth under his palms.

“It was tight,” Owen laughs, seemingly incredulous at their victory

George lets Maro clasp his hand, bring him in for a pat on the back, makes sure to look him in the eyes when Maro expresses his thanks. 

Maro is even less dressed than Owen, down to boxers rather than shorts, but George feels none of the same instinct to let his gaze linger, never mind his hands. He’s honestly a little relieved - if Maro doesn’t catch his eye in here it will only ever be Owen. 

“You did leave it to the last minute a bit,” George acknowledges, letting himself look back to Owen.

Owen shrugs a shoulder, the movement loose. “Wanted to give you a good match to watch, you know?”

“So kind,” George rolls his eyes, though he can’t hold back the grin at the idea that Owen was thinking of him as he was playing. He knows Owen wasn’t, not really, is sure he was entirely focused on the match and all its intricacies - he would have needed to be. 

“It was you putting on most of the show,” Maro interjects, teasing Owen. “Did you do that on purpose? Keep kicking to the posts, rather than give us chances, so you could look good?”

“Not giving you lot opportunities doesn’t make me look good,” Owen laughs.

“That’s not a no,” George points out quickly, getting Maro laughing too.

“Hey, congrats on your win, too,” Owen tells him, earnest. “You played a great match.”

“Thanks,” George grins. “It felt good.”

“Looked good,” Owen flicks a pointed gaze up and down, quick as a blink, setting all his neurons firing. _Just a few hours_ , George thinks to himself. Just a few hours, and they’ll be alone together, _finally_.

“Hey.” Maro nods over George’s shoulder. “Lone Tiger, three o’clock.”

George glances back over his shoulder, just briefly, isn’t surprised by what he sees. It’s Jordan, left by Ben and Jonny, understandably lacking the confidence to approach players he doesn’t know all that well. “Thanks,” George says to Maro, voice low.

“Jord!” Owen calls, beckons him over before George can turn back to do so himself.

“Alright?” Jordan greets, a little cautiously. “Good game, guys,” he tells Owen and Maro both, glancing between them. 

“Thanks,” Maro acknowledges. “Same to you.”

“That was a great try,” Owen adds, grinning. “You played a brilliant match, especially from the bench, not expecting it.”

“Thanks,” Jordan smiles slightly, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“We’ll have to see about replacing Jonny with him full time,” George says, loud, having spotted Jonny approaching.

“Oi!” Jonny objects, punching George in the shoulder. “Rude!”

George shrugs. “Who scored a try today?”

“Me!” Ben pipes up, joining them.

“I’m injured,” Jonny says pathetically, blinking wide eyes at George.

“Are you okay, mate?” Owen asks, turning serious.

“Should be,” Jonny nods. “Probably not for next week, but for the Internationals - if I’m picked.”

“That’s good,” Owen nods.

“Getting your squad all sorted, captain?” George teases.

Owen rolls his eyes at him, but George can see the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Not captain anymore,” he says.

“Not until 60 minutes in, maybe,” George returns. And he’s not so sure about that. With Jamie doing his best to demand a starting spot he doesn’t know what Eddie is going to do with Dylan. And thinking of Jamie - “I should -” he gestures over to where Jamie is talking with George Kruis. He should make the rounds, congratulate the rest of his friends, not just linger with Owen until they can leave.

“I’ll see you later,” Owen says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Later,” George promises. He flicks a quick glance at Jordan before he goes, then back at Owen, Owen inclining his head in understanding - he’ll look after Jordan, if Ben and Jonny forget him again. 

George rattles through the rest of Saracens quick enough, lingering with old Bath teammates as well as his current England ones. Everyone’s happy to see him, the way you are after a tough win like that, but he turns down every offer of a beer, every invitation to the night out. He imagines Owen is doing the same, on the other side of the changing room.

George can’t help the way he looks back to Owen every time he moves on from one conversation to the next, every time Owen’s laugh echoes through the room. He’s not sure he’s ever been so aware of Owen, even when he joined the senior England set up and couldn’t tell what that meant for their relationship. Owen seems to be the same if the number of times George catches his gaze is any indication. It’s been so long since they were alone together, really alone, with no interruptions - anticipation thrums through George’s veins.

Finally, _finally_ , it’s time. Mark McCall pops his head in to call the few Saracens that are going on the team bus, and George and Owen are free to leave. George looks immediately to Owen as everyone moves to gather their things, finds Owen looking straight back. He tilts his head to the door and Owen grins, slings his bag onto his shoulder, makes his excuses. George says his own goodbyes to the Saracens he’s with, only glances around for his fellow Tigers for a second before deciding they can survive without a send off - it’s not like they don’t know how eager he is to get away. He slips from the room only a few seconds after Owen and they exchange silent, wide grins before setting off for the stadium exit. 

Connie had parked George’s car on someone’s drive for half the price of Twickenham parking and George pulls the location up as he and Owen walk along the side of the Harlequins stadium, hurrying to stay ahead of the hoard of Saracens sure to follow.

Owen giggles, abruptly, as they rush across the car park. “Feel like we’re escaping,” he says, to George’s inquisitive look.

George quirks a grin - it does, at that. “Not far now,” he promises Owen. There’s not even two hundred meters of road from the car park to the main road, George breathing easy when they make it out. “We’ve nearly made it,” he tells Owen, leaning in to knock their shoulders together. 

“Then you’re all mine, for a whole -”

“Don’t count the hours,” George cuts Owen off, laughing. “It’s depressing!” he insists.

“More than we’ve had in weeks, in a _month_ ,” Owen counters.

George stops the instinctive ‘not enough, never enough’, before it can make it out of his mouth, not wanting to break the excited bubble he and Owen are now in. They’re walking close together, the backs of their hands brushing. Owen barely looks away from George, trusting him to lead them safely to the car. It’s a lot of trust considering George isn’t even the one who parked it, isn’t checking in with his phone nearly as often as he should be.

George averts his head from the road as a car drives past, glad of the time they’d spent lingering in the dressing rooms now, allowing the crowds from the match to disperse. It would be - fine, if they were spotted now. Two lads, two friends, going for a drink to catch up. But he’d rather they weren’t.

George checks the route again as they cross a side road. “Right!” he realises, crashing into Owen as he makes the abrupt shift in direction.

Owen grumbles, righting himself with a hand on the small of George’s back. “A little warning?” he requests, his hand lingering.

“Maybe I just wanted to touch you?” George suggests, voice low.

“Reckless,” Owen tuts. “We’ll be safe soon enough.”

George glances sideways at Owen, slides him a smile. He brushes the back of their hands together once more, stretching his fingers out until they too brush Owen’s, almost slip between them for a heartbeat.

“Soon,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	23. Chapter 23

George wakes pleasantly sore the next morning, aching where Owen has touched him. He stretches, basking in the pull along lines down his back that he’d urged Owen to leave, the ache in bruises on his thighs from Owen’s mouth. He doubts they’ll last even another day more, but he’s glad to feel them while he can. 

Owen doesn’t respond when George moves, George turning to find him still asleep for once. He supposes it makes sense; Owen had had the later match, is likely carrying more fatigue - not that George would have known that last night. George props himself up on the pillows and grabs his phone, smiling when Owen rolls over onto his chest, wrapping an arm around him. He ducks to press a kiss into Owen’s hair and settles in to reply to messages about the game last night, messages from Tigers ribbing about him vanishing yesterday evening.

It’s not long until Owen stirs again, blinking his eyes open briefly before burrowing into George’s chest to hide from the light.

“Morning love,” George greets.

Owen grunts. “No,” he denies. “No morning.”

George laughs. “I’m not going to make you get up, don’t worry,” he assures Owen. He switches to instagram, easier to scroll one handed while he trails the fingers of his other hand along Owen’s back.

Owen lays there for long moments, breathing deep, before propping his chin on George’s chest with a huff.

“Alright?” George abandons his phone, looking down at Owen.

Owen stretches deliberately. “Sore,” he says with a smirk.

George hums agreement, flexing his thighs where he knows Owen can feel it.

Owen’s smirk grows, then vanishes as he glances at George’s phone. “Got any news on Lasike?” 

George shakes his head, types in a search. “Nothing yet.”

“Fuck,” Owen rolls onto his back. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, turning on his side to follow Owen.

Owen looks back at him, shifts so they’re lying face to face, rests a hand on George’s hip under the covers. “I didn’t know Rob Horne’s injury was that bad,” he says, hushed.

“I did,” George tells him, a frown settling onto his face.

“I mean, I knew it was _bad_ , I had heard that, but -” Owen shakes his head. “It’s tough.”

“Yeah.” George reaches down to Owen’s hand on his hip, interlaces their fingers.

They’re silent for long moments but George’s brain is far from quiet. He’s back on the spiral from last night, when he’d watched Lasike go down - what if that had been Owen? What if something had happened to Owen and George had had to drive home, alone, was still waiting for news? Lasike’s family might not be, maybe if it had been Owen someone would have told George what was going on by now - but it wouldn’t have been the medical staff, wouldn’t have been his team, would have had to be Owen himself, or his family. And the Farrells are so far away, no one would have been able to be with Owen if he’d been hurt. Perhaps a teammate would have been called, Jamie George or Brad Barritt - George doubts Owen would have been left alone. But his family wouldn’t be able to be there, _George_ wouldn’t be able to be there, no one would even think he should be. Owen would be alone, suffering, without his loved ones by his side -

“What are you thinking about?” Owen interrupts George’s thoughts with a squeeze of his hand.

George blows out a breath. “Lasike,” he admits. “And Rob, and - what if it had been you, or me?”

“It wasn’t,” Owen says simply.

“But if something happened,” George swallows. “If something happened, Owen, and I couldn’t - I couldn’t come to you, couldn’t even ask anyone to find out if you were okay -”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Georgie,” Owen releases George’s hand to run a palm up his side, coming to rest at his jaw. 

“You can’t promise that,” George shakes his head. “We can’t, in this sport, anything could -”

“Hey, hey,” Owen quiets George, leaning in to rest their foreheads together. “We’ll be fine. And you could ask my family, if anything happened - you wouldn’t have to, they’d tell you. Same as yours would for me.”

“Yeah.” George closes his eyes and focusing on the warmth of Owen in front of him. He’s here - warm and solid and safe and well. “But I don’t - I wouldn’t be able to be there.”

“No,” is all Owen replies, all he can reply.

And everyone would ask at Tigers, George knows, if anything happened to Owen - it’s well established that he and Owen are close, and goodness knows his teammates like to gossip. Everyone would want to know and George would have to tell them, or not tell them, but he’d have to deal with it, be reminded of whatever had happened to Owen every minute of every day while not being able to be there for him. It had been bad enough after Smith was red carded for his high tackle on Owen, and very few people had even known at the time that Owen was out of the next game with injury. 

George had found the fallout from Smith harder to deal with than the few other incidents of homophobia - mostly absent language - he’s had to stamp on since the start of the season. It had been the first time in a long time that George had felt alone, felt isolated, dealing with an issue within the team. Since he had told Matt O’Connor and Tom Youngs about his sexuality at the end of last season George has known that if an homophobic issue were to escalate to the point where coaches or the captain got involved leadership would at least know the stakes, understand the severity of the incident. 

With Owen’s injury, only Joe and Kyle could recognise what was really going on. No one else had understood, had been able to understand, that George was defending his partner. If something had happened, if things had gone south, George would have been unable to fully explain himself to the coaches, unable to show them how much it mattered. For the first time in a long time, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them the truth.

It’s not that the disclosure of his sexuality has stopped George having to deal with homophobia at work - of course it hasn’t. It hasn’t stopped players using homophobic language, referencing stereotypes they claim not to understand - but having faith in a certain degree of understanding, not even support, _has_ helped. It has helped know there are people, players and coaches alike, who understand the impact such conversations have on him. It has helped to know that there are people in his space who will - who have - helped redirect the conversation when it’s been needed. It has helped to know that there are people who would know to cover for him if it ever did get to be too much. 

It hasn’t solved the problem, but it has helped.

“I could tell Geordie,” George murmurs, almost without thinking about it. “If Geordie knew about us I’d be able to come down, be with you, he couldn’t stop me. And if Mark knew he could call me, as well as your family. He could help block your lads from coming when I was with you, or give me a heads up to get out for a bit. There’s confidentiality in hospitals anyway, so the staff couldn’t say anything on the off chance they knew us.”

“I’m fine, Georgie,” Owen says gently, a reminder. “Nothing’s happened.”

George leans back, opening his eyes to Owen’s concerned face. “But it could.”

The furrow between Owen’s brows deepens. “So you, what - you want to tell our coaches about us?”

“I want - I want to know if something happens to you, I want you to know if something happens to me. I don’t want to have to carry on, pretend everything’s fine. I don’t want either of us to have to lie in a hospital bed alone. Telling our coaches fixes that, so - yeah,” George decides, eyes flickering over Owen’s face. “Not like England,” he hastens to clarify. “Not all the coaches knowing, but our head coaches - yeah, I think I want to tell them.”

Owen just blinks at George.

“Sorry, that’s - it’s a lot, and you’ve only just woken up,” George pulls back. “It’s - I only just thought about it, don’t worry, it’s fine. We’ll be fine,” he repeats, to himself as much as Owen.

“No,” Owen slides his hand around the back of George’s shoulder, stops him as he tries to roll away. “No, it’s - we should talk about this, what happens if one of us gets seriously injured. We should have talked about it before, really.”

George settles back into the pillow as Owen thinks. He’s said what he wants to, for the moment.

“Our families would tell us,” Owen finally says. “If - if something happened -” his hand flexes on George’s shoulder “- you’d know, I’d know, they wouldn’t leave us waiting for news any more than they were. I don’t think we need to worry, not about that. And, if it was serious - you could still be there, I could still come to you, if it was that bad. It’s not like Geordie and Mark would stop us; we only have to say it’s a family emergency, it’s no more their business than that.”

George hums. It’s not that he disagrees with what Owen is saying, but - “And, what? While you’re lying paralysed in a hospital bed I’m meant to be thinking about how to stop Geordie figuring out I’ve gone to see you? Worrying about how much time I can spend by your side without running into your teammates, your coaches?”

“I’m not in a hospital bed,” Owen squeezes George close. “I’m right here.”

George lets himself burrow into the warmth of Owen’s embrace for a breath, for more. “I know.” George makes himself pull back so he can look Owen in the eyes again, “I do know that. But now I’ve thought about it, I - fuck, I _hate_ the idea of something happening to you on a weekend and hearing about it second hand in the changing rooms, then not even being able to be go to you, having to sit tight and wait for your family to pass on news. Telling our head coaches solves that - and they could help with visiting, you know they would.” 

“You don’t worry they’d -” words seem to fail Owen.

“What?” George asks. “You know them, we know them - they’d never tell. And we won’t even be playing each other this year. It won’t get in the way of rugby, not like that. They know us better than to think it would.”

“Yeah,” Owen accepts. “Yeah, I guess.”

Once again they lie in silence, George now focused on Owen, on trying to figure out what’s going on in his head. 

It’s a new idea to Owen, George is sure, but it’s a new idea to him too. That doesn’t stop him wanting that security, wanting to have something in place so he can stop imagining himself, frantic with worry about Owen, having to work to hide it, being unsure if he’s allowed to go to him. He doesn’t want to imagine himself lying in a hospital bed having to sneak in quick phone calls with Owen, communicating through his family if he couldn’t manage that, not being able to see Owen when he might need him by his side. But Owen has stated, time and again, that privacy of their relationship is something that’s important to him, not simply a necessary consequence of George staying closeted. George understands that, he does - but their families know, Kyle knows, even their teams know they’re dating someone. It’s not like it was back when they first dated, or in juniors, when this part of their lives was kept strictly separate from everything else. That’s changed as they’ve grown, as their relationship has grown, the two of them now filling spaces in each other’s lives it would be nigh on impossible to hide.

George knows it would be a risk to tell their head coaches, knows it’s never as simple as trusting them - but also it is, and he does. 

“You don’t have a head coach right now,” Owen says, eventually. “Geordie’s just interim, yeah? It could be anyone else, in a couple of months.”

“Fuck,” George had almost forgotten, sure as he is that Geordie will be picked for it when the time comes. “Fuck, yeah.” 

George had been thinking of telling Geordie and Mark, men they’ve known for years. The idea of a new head coach coming in, having to tell someone he doesn’t know - it’s entirely different. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that he might have a new head coach to tell about his sexuality, so sure is he that Geordie will get the job permanently, so sure has he been since the day he was named. But he might not, the spot could go to someone else. 

“And if we want to do this properly, think about getting injured - it’s not only a risk at our clubs.”

“I know,” George sighs. 

There’s almost no point telling their own head coaches if they don’t tell Eddie, no point being prepared for either of them getting injured on club duty if they could still get injured for their country, still get injured playing together, and have to carry on.

“So - no, then?” George checks, eyes flicking over Owen’s face.

“I do think you’re right, I think they’d be okay. I’d tell Mark,” Owen offers. “If you want, I’d tell Mark, so he could call you, so you could be there. And if you want to tell Geordie, that - yeah, you could. I wouldn’t mind you telling him, if you trust him.”

George knows Owen wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it, but he’s not blind to the fact that he doesn’t exactly sound eager.

“But, Eddie -”

“It’s too risky,” George says, so Owen doesn’t have to. “There’s no way of knowing how he’d react, what it would do to selection.” Especially with his own spot precarious enough as it is, George doesn’t say. Especially when they’re still not sure exactly what had changed the structure of room allocation, on the South Africa tour. “And there’s no way he’d room us together in Portugal!”

“Can’t be having that!” Owen laughs. “And we’ll probably be fine,” he adds, voice soft.

George leans in, rests their foreheads together again. “Probably,” he murmurs. 

He’s not sure that’s enough for him, but it seems it might have to be.

“So that’s definitely a no on telling Eddie - the others?” Owen asks, pulling away to finish their conversation.

George would still want to tell Mark, if he’s honest, would still want to get that call if anything were to happen to Owen. But Owen is right to point out that George doesn’t even _have_ a head coach, technically, and the idea of getting a new one, of telling Geordie now and then, for the sake of continuity, having to go in and tell a _stranger_ \- even thinking about it is making George tense. And would be unfair for just one of their coaches to know, to be in a position where George would be respected if something were to happen to Owen, but where Owen would still be excluded were something to happen to George. 

“No,” George decides, on an exhale. “Unless -” he pulls back, looks Owen in the eyes “- unless you want to? I’ll tell Geordie if you want, but you’re right; I don’t actually have a head coach. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to have this conversation,” he jokes.

“Maybe not,” Owen chuckles.

George knows Owen is only going along with his attempt to lighten the tone, but it doesn’t stop a rush of guilt. “Definitely not, fuck,” George blows out a breath, rolls over onto his back. He owes Owen an apology for dragging him on such a roller coaster of a conversation, a roller coaster of emotions, without even properly considering his own situation first. “Sorry, you barely woke up and I dragged you into this talk, when -”

“No,” Owen cuts off George’s apology, shifting closer and draping an arm over George’s waist. “We needed to talk about it, I’m glad you got us to,” he assures George, pressing a warm kiss to the point of his shoulder. He rests his head there for a moment, before raising it to look George in the eyes. “So - we carry on as we are, for now? Reassess when your head coach is announced, if you want?”

“Yeah? That sounds good,” George agrees. “Give us time to sit with the idea too. And - I mean. If something _did_ happen, to me, if it was serious - I’d want you there.” He states this truth firmly, so Owen will know, will have no cause for doubt, will understand that George wants him at his side, despite the risk. “I’d want - I wouldn’t want you to worry about whether or not people would figure out about us, not if there’s more important things to be worried about.”

And even that’s far from straight forward, relies on Owen deciding himself how to balance those priorities, but Owen nods agreement despite the frown that says he recognises that fact. “The same to you,” he says. “We’ve decided not to outright tell our head coaches, yeah, so I feel like we shouldn’t go back on that? But otherwise, just - do what feels right. We’ll deal with the fallout together, after, if we need to.”

Now it’s George’s turn to nod agreement - they’ve had years balancing these things. It’s not easy, but he trusts that they’d figure out the best course of action for this new situation too, if it came to it.

“But we’ll be fine,” Owen smiles, squeezing George gently.

George doesn’t want to repeat that, doesn’t want to tempt fate. So he draws Owen in, instead, to their first kiss of the morning.

~

The day flies by in a virtual blur of kisses after that, the two of them not making it out of bed before noon. Even then George is reluctant, wraps himself around Owen while he’s cooking until they’re pressed almost as close as they were in bed.

“Alright there?” Owen asks, laughter in his tone.

“Yep,” George tells him brightly, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck.

“Clingy,” Owen’s laughing properly now, George can feel the movement.

“Complaining?” George asks - half serious. He will leave Owen be while he cooks, if that’s what Owen wants. He might not be best pleased about it, but then he doesn’t think he’d be best pleased to have someone clinging to him, limpit-like, while he was trying to prepare food, either.

Owen hums, considering, dragging the sound out as he shuffles the two of them to a cupboard. “Grab us glasses?” he asks George, while he rummages for spices the shelf below.

George does, only having to release Owen with one arm to do it.

“I guess it’s okay if you’re helpful,” Owen tells him, taking the glasses from George and placing them on the counter, turning in George’s hold to face him.

“I can do that,” George assures him, beaming.

He tones it down when Owen leans in for a kiss, lingering longer than George thinks he first intends. They’re broken apart by the kettle coming to boil, in the end, George laughing when they part and he finds Owen looking just as disappointed as he feels.

“Can’t believe we have to eat,” Owen grumbles, turning, waiting patiently for George to reattach himself to Owen’s back before heading to the kettle.

“Such a waste of time,” George agrees, speaking deliberately into Owen’s ear.

Owen shivers. “Recovery time,” he suggests, voice wry.

“You need recovery?” George asks, slipping his hands into the front pockets of Owen’s joggers.

“I need fuel.”

George laughs, backing off just a little - so does he.

The cooking works absurdly well, George functioning as a second pair of hands whenever Owen needs them. It’s dishing up where things start to go wrong.

“Right,” Owen says decisively, taking George’s hand out of his pocket.

George whines as Owen turns to face him - still close, for now. Then he laughs breathlessly as Owen spins them as a pair, presses George back against the counter. “Jump,” Owen instructs.

George barely has time to obey before Owen is lifting him, setting him on the counter.

“Owen!” he laughs, not having been prepared. “Show off!” he teases, opening his thighs for Owen to press close once more.

Owen leans up, kisses him, hands gripping hard at the top of George’s legs, George squirming as his thumb presses into a bruise. George takes hold of Owen’s shoulders in turn, pressing blunt nails in to feel him shiver. Owen doesn’t go far, when they part, stays breathing the same air for a beat, two. “Stay,” he instructs, squeezing George’s thighs again before finally turning away.

George takes a moment to catch his breath. “Do I get to come down to eat?” 

“In a minute,” Owen tells him, not looking over as he piles food onto both of their plates. He carries them to the table before returning to George, still sitting obediently where he was left. He stands between George’s thighs again, George shifting to the edge of the counter, position precarious, to get himself as close to Owen as possible.

“You going to carry me?” George asks, not exactly sure what Owen is planning.

Owen shakes his head. “Just -” he leans up and George leans down, reconnecting their lips.

They kiss for long moments, softer than before, Owen’s hands trailing up and down George’s thighs, George shifting a hand through the hair at the back of Owen’s head.

“We gotta eat,” George eventually murmurs against Owen’s lips.

Owen sighs, dropping his forehead to George’s shoulder.

“I guess,” he acknowledges.

“We’ve got all afternoon, all evening,” George promises him.

Owen presses forwards - doesn’t take a step, can’t, but leans his weight onto George for a moment. “For now,” he sighs - then steps away, takes a seat at the table.

George looks after him. What can he say, to that? Owen is right, they do only have this one day. It’s not enough, George thinks, not what either of them want. They want the summer, want glorious long days of free time, in each other’s company. But they have jobs, they have careers that they love, and they want to do them too, while they still can.

George joins Owen without acknowledging his words, shifting his seat until their knees knock. 

Bemoaning what they have, while they have it - now that would be the real waste of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I had to skip a week! I had a real battle with one particular section of this chapter, and also my brain. I hope you enjoyed it in the end! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments! I hope you're all enjoying the return of rugby this weekend, too ^.^ I'm drafting this before the Leicester match has started, so it's currently impossible to say if I'm enjoying it at this point... /o\


	24. Chapter 24

Later, after another meal made in laughter, they’re sat together in the lounge. Owen’s legs are propped in George’s lap, comfortable silence broken when Owen asks, “How are things at Tigers? Like, now it’s all settled since the start of the season, that anti-homophobia push?"

George shrugs a shoulder, attention caught in the hairs that scatter Owen’s calves, in smoothing them to and fro. “Alright.”

“Geordie’s good I take it, if you wanted to tell him about us?”

George looks up. “Hasn’t done much yet, hasn’t had to.”

“Yeah? No one saying shit?”

George pulls a face. “Not really. It’s definitely better than it was, by a long way, and the lads are decent at calling it out now, if anyone does cross a line. I don’t actually think I’ve heard anyone say anything homophobic in front of Geordie, haven’t seen how he would deal with it.”

Owen hums approval, settling deeper into his slouch and reaching out a hand. George places his own in it, turning his attention back to Owen’s calves as Owen turns his own to George’s fingers, wiggling them back and forth. George stifles a laugh at the sensation, lightens his own touch, drawing it down Owen’s ankles in an attempt to draw Owen's own laughter forth.

It doesn’t succeed, and when George looks up Owen is frowning down at his - their - hands.

“Owen?” George prompts.

“No one’s said anything about - you? About your partner?”

“You know I’d’ve told you if they had.”

Owen shrugs a shoulder.

“No, no one’s said anything, no one’s asked,” George goes on, now watching Owen carefully. “I reckon a few of them have figured out you’re a guy, though.” 

Owen’s eyes flick up to his.

George has never told him that so directly, not when every instance is so obscure, every incident so indirect. It’s exactly what George wants, for his partner, for the concept of his sexuality; if George has had so few indications of whether or not Tigers know that he can’t even tell his partner about them, if he’s so unsure, then presumably - hopefully - the lads are equally unclear of his half of the situation.

“Most of the lads call you my partner unprompted,” George explains. “So - they might know, might not, it’s hard to say if that means anything. But Guy, at our partners meal, he referred to you as ‘they’ without me saying it first. And then David Denton flat out corrected his fiancee when she asked about my girlfriend, called you my partner instead,” George adds, remembering the moment of sheer panic that had provoked in him, the complete anticlimax it had ended up being.

“You didn’t say,” Owen observes.

“It’s -” George shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know, you know? Shells didn’t seem to think anything of it, and neither did David. He knows that’s the word I use for you, sure, but that’s not the same as realising why.”

Owen hums agreement. “But you think he has realised? David?"

“And Guy, and Jordan, maybe a few of the other lads,” George confirms. “Not all of them. Some of them still call you my girlfriend,” George admits, dropping his eyes to Owen’s calves, stirring the hairs there once again. “Manu, and Fitz and Garry, a couple more.”

“That’s awkward,” Owen says, gentle.

“I hate it.” The words escape George before he’s decided whether or not to let them. “But it’s - you know, it keeps people confused so they can’t go spreading rumours, keeps that plausible deniability, it’s what I want. But - I still hate it,” he tries for a smile, to brush it off.

Owen leans forwards, pulling himself closer with his hold of George’s hand as leverage. “It’s okay, Georgie,” he says softly. 

“It’s not, it’s not okay,” George bursts out. “It's - every time they say it and I just go along it feels like denying a part of me, denying _you_.”

“Don’t worry about it for my sake,” Owen replies, eyes serious. “It’s not - it’s about keeping you safe, yeah? You say whatever you need to to keep playing with these lads, whatever that ends up being. You don’t owe them anything, and you don’t need to feel bad about whatever assumptions they’ve made - it’s not _your_ fault they’re not listening well enough.”

George manages half a laugh. “Given how much rugby lads love to gossip you’d think they’d listen better.”

Owen smiles at him, warm. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Look - if it doesn’t sit right with you that’s one thing, only you can figure what situation'll be best for you, all of that. But what you said about it feeling like denying me - I don’t care, I’m not bothered by that. I just want you to be safe, Georgie, to be able to focus on your rugby like you want without this nonsense distracting you. I just want you to be comfortable.”

George nods acknowledgement, closing the last of the distance between them to kiss Owen, brief and gentle. “Thank you, love,” he says. “It’s all - it’s a mix of all sorts of things, I think, not just about denying you, but - I think it’ll help. I hope it’ll help.”

George draws back, opening his eyes and finding Owen still regarding him seriously.

“You hate it that much?” 

George pulls a face, considering. Does he? In a way, he does. He hadn’t been lying - it feels like denying Owen, every single time, and that bothers him more than the implied denial of his sexuality. He guesses he’s had more practice at the latter. And yet -

“It’s - getting easier,” George admits. It’s not comfortable, and he can’t imagine it ever would be, but - “Sometimes that’s what bugs me most, that I’m getting used to it.”

“But that’s a good thing, right?” Owen encourages. “If this is the kind of situation you want to be in, if this is how you want to play this, then it’s good that you’re getting used it.”

George sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

The only other option, after all, is correcting them.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to correct his teammates when their assumptions make him uncomfortable - sometimes he does, sometimes he burns to - but he doesn’t want the consequences. The news would spread within the club like wildfire if he chose to share it, and that’s not where it would stay contained. He’d have a season of grace, perhaps more, before it started spreading to the rest of the Premiership, the media, but it would happen. Even before that, the attention from within the club, the idea of those half known eyes on him, at all times - George fights back a shudder. The idea of that, so much closer and so much more real than unseen whispers from other clubs, might actually bother him more. 

“At Tigers’ partner’s dinner people asked about you,” George tells Owen, wincing at the non sequitur as he tries to work out how best to explain this to Owen. Owen takes it in stride, nodding immediately. “It wasn’t just David Denton’s girlfriend, it was loads of the lads, their partners, the partners of guys I barely talk to in the course of a week, lads I _know_ I’ve never mentioned you to. Everyone wanted to see you there, wanted to know about you - I never expected that. 

“I didn’t like it,” George tells Owen, watching closely for a reaction that Owen does not give. “It’s not - it’s just not their business what’s going on in my life, and they don’t actually care either - they only want to gossip. Whatever they ask it’s not out of investment in me, or even really interest. Lenny and Jonny, a few of the other lads, sure, they’re interested to know if I’m happy or whatever. But the lads who were asking that night - it’s just nosiness, nothing more. I know the squad are gossips but that’s the first time I’ve felt it turn on me, and I hadn’t honestly expected it to - I’m really not that interesting,” he jokes, Owen obliging him with a smile. “It was pretty uncomfortable, you know? And it’d be ten times worse if they knew you were a guy.”

“So it’s worth it,” Owen summarises.

“Yeah,” George nods, relaxing as he finds he can say the words with confidence. “It’s worth it.”

George hasn’t thought things through this clearly since the season start, since he’d picked a path and stuck to it. His family ask, sometimes, how things are going - especially Joe - but George has never thought this deeply while answering their questions. It’s not that he doesn’t think his family care when they ask, and it’s not that he’s avoiding answering them, it’s just - well, perhaps he is avoiding answering. His family are well intentioned, of course they are, but they just don’t have know enough of the context to understand anything he might tell them. It’s only with Owen that George can think things through aloud like this, without worrying about being misunderstood. 

“You’re not regretting letting them know you have a partner?” Owen asks.

If George’s parents had asked him this he would have become defensive of his and Owen’s relationship. If his brother had asked, any of the other Tigers who know, George would wonder what they had heard to lead them to ask, wonder if they thought he’d made a mistake. 

Owen asks, and George considers the question at face value.

“No,” George decides. “I haven’t given them enough to gossip off properly, or not anything like accurately anyway. And like I said, it’s mostly guys I don’t talk to who were bothering me, it’s not a problem in the week.”

“The lads you see in the week know you’re not so interesting,” Owen teases.

“Yeah,” George rolls his eyes, smiling. “I - I like it, actually, when it’s not people pressing,” he tells Owen. “I like that they know.”

He does, doesn’t think he’d realised until that moment. He likes that when the team go on nights out he can use Owen as an excuse to drop out or bail, likes being known as a boring half of a couple, not worth working on when he’s got something good at home, not likely to change. He likes having that, his relationship, accepted and respected.

Shit.

“I - this morning,” George begins, then has to stop, trying to wrestle his tumbling thoughts into some form of order. “Talking about telling Geordie and Mark, I - I didn’t even realise, that’s part of it, part of why I wanted to tell them - I like the idea of _having them know_ , just for that, nothing more. I thought I wanted it so I could be there for you if anything happened, so you’d be there for me, but - that’s not all of it. I like the idea for itself, for having that… status?” he tries, dipping his gaze to where his hand still rests on Owen’s calf, deliberately relaxing his grip. He can’t believe he hadn’t known.

“…Yeah?”

George looks up to Owen, surprised. “Yeah?”

“I - yeah, George,” Owen seems confused. “I got that part of it when you said about wanting to be told, not wanting to have to wait for news. You know my family’d tell you as soon as they could, why else would you want it to be Mark telling you?”

George huffs. “Well I didn’t get it,” he tells Owen, starting to trail his fingers along Owen’s calf again as his lack of reaction brings George down. “I still don’t - we just went over me not even wanting my teammates to know you’re a guy, how did you figure that I _wanted_ to tell Mark and Geordie?” 

“Babe, nothing you’ve wanted about this whole thing has been consistent,” Owen tells him bluntly. “I just take it as it comes.”

“Hey!”

“What?” Owen arches an eyebrow. “That’s literally what you just said.”

“It makes sense,” George grumbles, though he’s sure the smile tugging at his lips betrays the fact that he doesn't believe that any more than Owen does. 

“Yeah? Why’d’you want to tell our coaches and not our lads, then? What’s your logic, if you’ve got one?”

“They’d respect it,” George murmurs. He looks up to Owen, struck. “Our lads, the more they know the more they’d joke, if they knew we were dating they’d just tease us, mock it, whatever spirit it was in. Our coaches - they’d respect it, respect us.”

Owen raises his eyebrows and nods, considering. “There’s always something in there, I tend to figure it out eventually,” he tells George, expression fond.

George rolls his eyes. “You had this one figured out before me.”

Owen shrugs. “Known you long enough, I know when there’s something you’re not quite saying.”

George smiles at Owen, squeezes his ankle. “Anyway, that shouldn’t’ve been part of it. The conversation we were having this morning, whether we tell our coaches - it’s about our careers, it’s about risk. I know our relationship is important to us, I know you respect it - why should I need anything more?”

Owen eyes George casually, a hint of a smile playing around the edge of his mouth. “Why do you think people get married, Georgie?” 

_To have their relationship respected_ , is the answer.

“We’re not getting married until after we retire,” George replies, words tumbling out of his mouth as he processes that realisation, then has to process his own response.

“Is that a proposal?” Owen asks, eyes sparkling.

“No!” George insists. “No proposals, no nothing, until we’ve both retired.”

“Okay,” Owen accepts, grinning freely now.

“No, stop, we’re having a conversation,” George protests.

“About marriage.”

“About telling our coaches!”

“That we’re getting married?”

“Owen!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Owen mimes zipping his lips, though it does nothing to reduce the grin.

George leans forward, leans into the bright happiness pooling in his stomach, spread all over Owen’s face, and kisses him hard. It’s counterproductive to the conversation he’s trying to have, but it’s all he wants to do. All he wants is to feel this with Owen, to share this with Owen, as much and as often as he possibly can. He’s never felt this happy, never felt this right, anywhere but at Owen’s side.

~

George arrives at Monday's training to a welcoming yell from Ben. “Here he is!” 

George has driven straight from Owen’s in rush hour traffic and is frankly more tired than he’d like to be at the start of a session. He smiles.

“We worried you’d been abducted after Quins,” Jonny teases.

George raises an eyebrow, “No you didn’t.” 

“You vanished without a word, Fordy! We were concerned,” Ben insists.

George just laughs.

“Have a good weekend, then?” it’s Manu who asks, nudging George as he walks past.

“Yep,” George beams. “I mean, we won, lads! At Twickenham! What can be better than that?”

There’s a round of agreement, cut through by Matty. “Finally seeing your partner after weeks apart?” he suggests, grinning.

George shrugs, off hand, as the changing room laughs. “It was alright, yeah.”

“Alright? You’re practically glowing, Fordy!” Jonny claims. “Looks better than alright to me.”

“You do look happy, mate,” Ben says. “But long distance, I’m sorry - the sex just can’t be good enough to make the waiting worth it.”

George pulls a face, not entirely sure he’s comfortable having this conversation in front of the whole squad. Still - he smirks, arching an eyebrow at Ben. “You’d be surprised,” he says, voice low, then turns to change into his kit. 

Matty wolf whistles as George strips his shirt. “Yeah, looks worth it!”

George had briefly forgotten Owen had marked up his back - a couple of lines of scratches, when George had asked, when he’d wanted to feel it. George hurries into his training shirt - it’s one thing to tell the lads he’d had a good weekend, but quite another for the entire locker room to be able to gawp at the evidence. He had thought the marks would fade by now, but at least the bruises on his thighs should be safe, high enough to be covered by his shorts most of the time, and high enough that people shouldn’t really look, the rest. 

“Too much!” Ben calls on his way out of the room, starting an exodus of players. “No, nope, don’t need to see that, that’s way too much information.”

“I’m with you mate,” Joe hurries after Ben, but pauses to clap George on the shoulder on his way out, tipping him a wink that Guy mirrors a moment later. 

George laughs as he drops his trousers - a room full of rugby players pleased for his exploits with his partner, despite the fact that some of them know, _must_ know, that said partner is a man. The fact that it’s happening is barely enough to make George believe that it can. 

“Fucking hell, are you sleeping with a _vampire_?” Jordan blurts, peering at the bruises over George’s thighs.

George had thought that himself 10 minutes in to Owen sucking bruises around the tops of his thighs. Another 10 minutes in and he hadn’t been thinking at all. George steps into his shorts, dragging them up to cover the marks. 

“You should see the other guy,” he tells Jordan, voice low.

George looks up to find Jordan still blinking at him, shocked, and runs the words back over in his head - curses himself; that was way too much, too far, so much more clear than he wants to be around Tigers. He glances around hurriedly but only Jonny seems close enough to hear, and he just winks at George when they make eye contact.

George can’t help but grin back at that, shaking the regret off. It might be more information than he wants to give Tigers, but it’s not information he minds Jordan having. With no one else near by George won’t worry overmuch about one slightly too clear slip of the tongue.

“Mate, seriously,” Manu comes wandering over. “Your girl lives in London? You should get her to move up here.”

Jordan glances at George, frowns.

“Not so great for the career,” George remarks, heading out to the pitch, taking the conversation about relationships with him.

Jonny and Matty fall into step with George and Manu, Jordan lingering behind. 

“You dating a model, Fordy?” Matty teases. “’S that why they’re based in London?”

George laughs, shaking his head. “Not that far out of my league, mate!” he denies.

“I’m serious bro!” Manu protests. “How long’s it been since you saw your girl? No time together - it’s no way to have a relationship, you know?”

George frowns, saved from answering by Matt’s equally unimpressed response.

“Thanks, Manu,” Matt says frostily. “Glad to hear you think so much of me and Ellyse’s marriage.”

“Yeah, but you’re _married_ ,” Manu stresses. “Fordy’s been with this girl - what, since off season? It’s not the same.”

“Maybe I should move to a London club,” George jokes, keeping his tone even.

“If you don’t wanna think about it,” Manu shrugs. “I just don’t know how you can date someone you never see - there’s plenty of girls up here. How’d’you even build a relationship like that?”

“Look,” George stops at the edge of the training pitch, impatience boiling over. “You don’t know anything about our relationship, so leave off, alright? Their career is important to them, I wouldn’t _want_ them to give it up for me, any more than they’d want me to give up Leicester for them. And anyone I dated up here, no matter how much more I’d be able to see them - no one could come close, regardless of the _convenience_ ,” George spits the word, lip curling. “I’m not saying it’s easy, that I wouldn’t love us to live closer - but it’s worth it. It’s so, so worth it.”

“Alright,” Manu holds his hands up, luckily not taking offence. “Didn’t realise it was that serious, dude.” He jogs off to join the other centres.

Matty claps George on the shoulder, exchanging a solemn, sympathetic, look, before following in Manu’s wake.

“You really love them, huh?” Jonny says, looking at George curiously.

“Yes,” George answers. “I really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic incident/use of a slur, precise details (including slur) in the end notes.

George is frustrated after the match against Ulster. He’s frustrated at himself for conceding a yellow card, frustrated with the weather for the part it had played in such a scrappy game, but most of all he’s frustrated by the way Tigers can’t seem to gain any _momentum_. He carries that frustration, that irritation, right the way through their post match debrief, the travel home, all the way into Jonny’s house.

Jonny hadn’t been able to play the Ulster match due to his shoulder injury, and had invited George and Ben round for lunch and the Saracens’ game almost as soon as he’d been told. George had dithered at the time, unsure if he wanted to watch Saracens with his teammates again, make his loyalty so clear? He almost wishes he’d refused now, doesn’t think he’s particularly good company.

But the food is good, and Ben and Jonny don’t seem to mind a bit when George stays quiet, only rarely speaking without one of the two of them prompting him.

“You okay, mate?” Jonny does ask, once their plates are clear.

George just shrugs. “Yeah,” he says.

“The match?” Ben asks astutely.

“The match,” George acknowledges.

“I mean, I want to say anything ‘cause I didn’t play, but -”

And then they’re off, spending the time between lunch and Saracens’ kick off ripping Tigers to shreds with exactly the intensity, exactly the intent, that the team itself has so often been lacking.

“I feel better,” Ben announces, sitting back on Jonny’s sofa as Saracens and Glasgow run onto the pitch.

“Yeah - me too,” George echoes, surprised to realise it.

“We should try to rip Saracens’ apart the same way in a few minutes,” Jonny suggests.

George laughs. “We’ll be lucky!”

Jonny and Ben chat through the start of the match, but as through lunch George largely stays quiet, watching Saracens, watching Owen. It’s going to be a tense match, that much is clear the instant Saracens run out to a chorus of boos from the Glaswegian crowd. No other ground has given Owen that reception since he came out - but George knows it’s not about Owen, knows it’s about Saracens, and the Scotland-England rivalry. He’s sure Owen knows it too.

The first few minutes are taut, players on edge, pulled into the intensity of the occasion. Not even 10 minutes of play have passed before a fight threatens to break out, George relieved to see Owen keeping well out of it. Another few minutes pass and Saracens have a try, Jonny and Ben settling down to watch the replays, the conversion.

The crowd had booed the try liberally but as Owen sets up for the conversion there’s silence. George is surprised but glad - he supposes even on an occasion like this the good Owen has done affords him some respect.

Owen looks between the ball and the sticks, then again. Jonny giggles next to George.

A yell rings out from the crowd behind Owen, clear to hear even through the stadium mics.

“Faggot!”

George’s nails sink in where his hands rest on his thighs.

Owen stops, closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” Ben curses, heartfelt.

Jonny launches into a tirade barely a second later, in unison with the commentators.

Owen opens his eyes as the crowd echo Ben and Jonny, the initial gasp and murmur building into booing, condemnation.

Owen looks between the ball and the sticks, the ball and the sticks.

George keeps his eyes on Owen as he steps forward, and - nails the kick, dead centre of the posts.

The camera switches back to Owen as he chucks the tee to a member of support staff, stony faced, shaking his head and jogging away when the guy tries to speak to him.

The footage switches to a typical overhead shot and George slumps back onto the sofa, closing his eyes and letting out a breath.

“Y’alright Fordy?” Ben asks, putting a hand on his thigh.

George firms his jaw. “Had to happen sooner or later,” he says, eyes still closed.

“No it didn’t,” Jonny insists, immediate. “No it _fucking_ didn’t.”

George shakes his head, sitting forwards to watch again as the restart whistle blows. The crowd are still unsettled, the commentators too, but when Owen comes into the background of a shot he looks focused, ice cold. George hopes that’s a good sign.

“If Owen’s alright, I’m alright,” George says. 

That’s the heart of it - no, George hadn’t enjoyed hearing that. It had surprised him, honestly, after the positive start to the season, and yes, it had hurt. But George has always known there are people out there who think that of them, of him. As long as Owen’s alright, George will be too.

“That’s not how it works,” Jonny protests.

But it is, because George loves Owen.

“Yeah,” Ben backs Jonny up. “Just because they were technically yelling at Faz doesn’t mean it can’t affect you too.”

“Oh, I know full well they’d yell it at me given half a chance,” George assures him, can’t help the bitterness. He shakes his head a second later. “Look, I - _we_ \- know there’s people who think like that, people in rugby who think that rubbish. There’s more people than say it, and yeah, I’m not going to pretend it’s nothing to hear. To know that someone deliberately set out to hurt Owen like that, _with_ that -” George shakes his head to fend off the anger, now burning through the initial pain and shock “- it’s - yeah, it’s definitely not nothing. But I’m not going to have a breakdown over it,” he smiles at Ben and Jonny, trying for reassuring, “It’s nothing new.”

“At least it’ll be easy to find the fucker,” Jonny says, mirroring Ben’s hold of George’s thigh but otherwise making no more of it. “Sounded like a lot of people there disapproved, would be happy to turn him in.”

George grunts agreement, turns his attention back to the match, to trying to find Owen on screen. As long as Owen’s alright, George will be too.

Or so he thinks, until Glasgow concede a penalty, Owen points to the posts and the crowd have the _audacity_ to start to boo him, to treat it as a normal kick, as if someone hadn’t yelled a _slur_ the last time Owen had stepped up. At first the booing is scattered, isolated individuals, but the instigators refuse to quiet - George wonders how many of them want to echo the fan from earlier, how many of them are taking this as an opportunity to make their disapproval of _Owen_ clear, not their distaste for Saracens - and so it spreads, until it sounds like the whole stadium is booing Owen.

“That’s more like it,” a commentator says. “Better rugby spirit.”

George barks out a bitter laugh, can’t help it, ignores the way Ben and Jonny look to him, shocked, in favour of watching as Owen secures his team a simple three points.

But it’s not simple. Nothing about that, about being treated like that, is simple.

“D’you not agree with our esteemed commentator, Fordy?” Ben asks, light.

“No,” George bites out. And he should calm down, he knows it, knows this is likely an overreaction, can see it’s making at least Ben uncomfortable. But that’s Owen they’re booing out there, because of who he is, because of who he loves. Because he loves George - and what _would_ those idiots do if they knew that, George wonders. What would they do, what would they say, if they knew that England camps, England junior camps, were a place love like theirs grows and flourishes? “Commentators are idiots,” he says tightly, the least he can manage.

Jonny is shaking his head. “It’s not a normal game, moved past it the instant someone yelled - that,” he says, with a glance at George.

Any other day George would laugh it off, tell Jonny not to bother, would tell him he’s heard the word, the slur, enough for it to have stopped bothering him. Any other day George would be lying, but it would be something he could handle. Today, George appreciates the consideration.

“- they can’t boo Faz and pretend it is,” Jonny goes on.

“It is separate, though,” Ben says - not sounding particularly convinced himself.

George shakes his head. “Bet it’s not,” he says cynically, doing his best to sound less like someone about to explode with rage. “Bet the guys who started the booing would’ve been yelling slurs if they didn’t think it’d get them kicked out.”

“Hey -” Ben protests.

“Even if they weren’t it doesn’t feel right,” Jonny interrupts. “Sure, you want to create a hostile environment for the opposition, that’s important, but this - they’ve made it hostile with homophobia, that’s the start. And that’s makes it hostile for Owen, not the squad, or at least not as much. Carrying on, booing Faz in particular, after that -” Jonny shakes his head. 

“It’s an endorsement,” George agrees. “Says they don’t care about the tactics so long as Sarries are uncomfortable, don’t care what it costs Owen - when he’s been so _fucking_ brave, helped so many people, they don’t care, want to use that _against_ him -” George takes a breath, tries to gather himself.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jonny nods. “Whether they’ve thought it through or not, that’s what it is, that’s how it _feels_.”

Ben grunts, conceding the point, then hisses as they watch Mako limp off the pitch. “That doesn’t look good.”

While Ben and Jonny try to assess the extent of Mako’s injury George pulls out his phone.

 _I love you_ , George texts Owen, first of all. He doesn’t know what to say, what might help Owen the most. After a moment of consideration he decides to stop worrying about that, just types.

_fuck all of them, they’re assholes, fucking bullies._  
_they’ll get kicked out, banned, and they’ll deserve it. fuck them._  
_I love you_  
_call me if you need to, half time, whenever_

It’s reckless, George isn’t sure what Jonny and Ben would think of that, but as Hastings slots a kick through for Glasgow, as their fans explode in cheers, George can’t bring himself to care. He doubts Owen will look at his phone, honestly, but he has to offer, has to do _something_.

 _you’ve done a world of good, probably spoiled their fun, fuck them, you’re worth more, have done more, than every Glasgow fan put together._  
_I love you_ , George sends once more, for good measure.

“Texting Owen?” Jonny asks.

“Good idea!” Ben says, before George can decide whether or not to agree. “What did you say? What should we say?”

George shrugs a shoulder, “Whatever you feel,” he answers. That had been his decision, in the end. “That that guy can get fucked, that we - support him,” he settles for.

George is distracted from the match by texts Joe has sent, mostly swearing, jerks his head up when Jonny swears.

“Go on Faz!” Ben encourages, as George takes in the tableau of a Glasgow-Saracens fight, Owen in the heart of it.

“What started that?” George demands.

“Not a clue,” Ben sits back in satisfaction as the teams separate. “Oh - didn’t look like anything beyond the usual,” he assures George, realising the depth of the question.

As much as anything can be normal within this match, George thinks ruefully as Saracens point to the posts again. There’s no hesitation this time, booing ringing out loud and clear before Owen has even put the tee in the earth.

George keeps his eyes on Owen as he proceeds with his usual calm control - apart from the tension in his jaw, George suddenly spots, then sees lines of tension across his body. Most of it melts away as Owen follows his routine, draws the path of the ball - but the instant the kick is done it’s back, Owen’s hands clenching into fists as soon as he’s thrown the tee away.

“Fuck,” George curses, bringing out his phone.

 _I love you_ , he sends, helpless.

“You look worse than him, Fordy - you sure you’re alright?” Ben asks tentatively.

George barks out a laugh. “He looks bad enough.”

“Looked okay to me,” Jonny frowns.

George shakes his head. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. Only two minutes left in the half.

“You don’t though, Lenny’s right,” Jonny goes on. “I know - well. I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know anything about how you’re feeling, either of you. But I know that guy’s a dick, I know there’s no _way_ the club’ll stand for it, no way any club would.”

“And it’s only been the one guy,” Ben picks up. “The booing, this booing - yeah, I know what you mean about how it feels. I’m not arguing about that, I wouldn’t want to be in Owen’s shoes right now. But the fans haven’t even thought about it, they just want their team to win. It’s not malicious, Fordy, not this.”

That doesn’t mean it can’t be harmful, and George cares about Owen welfare far more than what proportion of the Glasgow crowd are homophobic. But George knows Ben has good intentions, knows him and Jonny both do, so he opens his eyes and smiles at them. “Thanks, lads,” he says, heartfelt. He claps both of them on the knee, squeezes. 

Jonny shrugs awkwardly, but Ben envelops George in a hug as the teams jog back into the changing rooms. It’s overdone, overdramatic, Ben rocking him back and forth and ruffling at his hair - but the affection is real. Jonny follows Ben’s lead once George has been released, swearing, bringing him in for a quick hug before standing and clearing his throat. “Anyone for a half time cuppa?”

George switches to another channel while Jonny is busy in the kitchen, not even asking Ben for permission. He flips his phone over and over in his hand - will Owen call? What would he say, if he did? What would George say, how could he possibly help?

George stays absorbed in those thoughts, Ben leaving him be, until Jonny returns with tea for everyone.

“Thanks mate,” George smiles, resting his phone on his thigh to take his mug.

He puts it down straight away, picks up his phone and continues to flip. It vibrates - Joe, again, speculating on what Saracens’ response to the incident might be.

Jonny flips back over to the match, away again when half time coverage pops up - they’ve still got a few minutes left.

“I hope Jordan’s not watching this,” Jonny mutters.

“Fuck,” George hadn’t even thought of that. He’d thought, in general, of how this must feel for other players in his position, other closeted players. But he hadn’t thought about Jordan, spent too much time thinking about Owen to do so. He still doesn’t know that Jordan is gay, queer, whatever - but after their exchange at the Quins match he thinks that excuse is starting to fall flat.

“ _Is_ he gay?” Ben demands, looking between the two of them. “I’ve heard the chat, but -”

“Who’ve you heard chatting?” George demands in turn. “What did you say?”

“Hey, c’mon Fordy - I told them to shut up and worry about their own sorry lives, what d’you think of me? It was Fitz and Garry, not that I think that’ll surprise you.”

“Sorry,” George slumps back into the cushions. “And I don’t know.”

“Don’t know if you’re surprised?” Ben frowns. 

No, George isn’t surprised at all by the names Mike Fitzgerald and Gareth Owen, in a way is relieved it’s no one new. “Don’t know if he’s -” George waves a hand. “Whatever.”

“Come on!” Jonny laughs, incredulous.

“Oi!” George scowls, not entirely sure what Jonny means by that.

“Oh no, I don’t mean -” Jonny pulls a face, apologetic. “But the way he trails after you, Fordy?”

George blinks. “He doesn’t trail after me. I’ve barely seen him this week.” Though now Jonny brings it up he can no longer ignore the deviation from the norm - is Jordan avoiding him, after the Harlequins game, after he’d come so close to saying - something?

“He absolutely does,” Jonny looks to Ben for support.

“I’ve not seen it, mate. I mean -” Ben frowns. “Actually, I guess he does a bit. But I never thought -”

“He’s got a crush on you,” Jonny tells George, supremely confident.

George pulls a face. “He does not.”

“He does,” Jonny insists. “I’ve got an eye for these things.”

George drops his phone mid flip, choking on a laugh. _Does_ he? George would be more concerned if Ben weren’t laughing twice as hard beside him.

“I do!” Jonny huffs, flipping the channel back to the Sarries match, leaving it there when they only get ads.

“I mean, I think he’s figured I’m bi,” George soothes Jonny. “Or that I’m dating a guy, technically - so yeah, maybe there’s something there because of that.”

“That’s not it,” Jonny grumbles. “I mean, I do think you’re right about that, but he definitely fancies you.”

George just shakes his head, laughing - as gently as he can, not wanting to upset Jonny.

Ben has no such compunctions, ripping into Jonny as George redirects his focus to the players as they run out, hoping against hope for a calmer second half.

A fight breaks out within minutes, because of course it does.

“Fuck’s sake,” George shakes his head.

“I mean, you can’t blame them,” Ben remarks, as the camera focusses on Saracens.

But it seems the commentators can, remarking as Billy limps off that his and Maro’s mock celebrations at the disallowed Glasgow try at the end of the first half seem to have stirred up bad blood.

“Yeah, ‘cause it needed stirring!” Jonny says, incredulous.

George laughs agreement. “Sarries have nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “Glasgow on the other hand…”

“You can’t blame them for the crowd’s behaviour,” Ben protests.

George shrugs. Ben’s right, technically, but that’s not the same as Glasgow being totally innocent. “They should be ashamed,” is all he says, lightening it with a grin.

“I guess - what can they do?” Jonny asks.

George shakes his head.

“No, go on Fordy,” Ben presses. “What can they do? What would you do?”

It’s a poor time to ask, the crowd once again booing Owen as he kicks to touch.

“I’d walk off the goddamn pitch, is what I’d do,” George tells him sharply.

“Would you really?” Ben asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes,” George insists. He’d snapped it on instinct, but finds he means it. He’s not sure he could stay, truth be told. If this were at Welford Road, if their fans were spouting, encouraging, homophobia, in the guise of support for Tigers, for _George_ \- he doesn’t think he would be able to stay. 

“You’d think they could at least stop picking fights,” Jonny says mildly, as the forwards go for each other again. “It’s not helping things.”

It’s not, and continues not to help throughout the whole second half. The teams get into more fights than they find scoring opportunities, Jamie and Maro both managing to acquire broken noses, and Owen spending heartstopping moments on the ground with injury. Still, they finish the match, pull out the win, despite whatever cost it may inflict on the England squad. George watches the post match coverage just long enough to spot Owen disappearing down the tunnel, then immediately pushes to his feet.

“Lads, it’s been -” George pulls a face, not quite sure how to describe the viewing experience. “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?”

Neither Ben nor Jonny press the matter, bidding George goodbye with hugs a touch tighter than usual. Ben offers George a lift home - he’d driven the two of them to Jonny’s, Jonny due to finally return one of the many lifts George has given him to training the next day. George refuses - Owen could ring at any point, has rung soon after matches before. He’ll walk home - it’s not far - and make sure he’s available for whatever Owen might need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warning: 'faggot' is yelled at Owen during a match, badly received by fans at the time but further supported by booing him later in the game. George watches this in the company/support of Ben and Jonny, but there is no resolution with Owen this chapter.
> 
> I'm... sorry? I think same as George, I kind of felt something bad had to happen through the season, and I remember the atmosphere of this match being _nasty_. I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments. Bank Holiday Monday fic this round is half time from Owen's POV, I will see you all then!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for continued discussion of the homophobic incident from the last chapter.

Owen’s call comes through when George is barely halfway home - he’s definitely calling from the ground, not that George is surprised. It’s only a phone call - they’ve video called from grounds before, but again, George isn’t surprised.

“Hi,” George greets. “Hi, love.”

“Hiya,” Owen says.

There’s a pause - what can George say? What could he possibly say that would help?

“How - how are you? How are you doing, how are you feeling?”

It feels ridiculous to ask, but at the same time ridiculous for George to assume that he knows. He doubts Owen’s okay, won’t ask that - but beyond that he’s at a loss.

“I -” Owen blows out a breath. “In a way, I’m glad it’s happened.”

George frowns but doesn’t interrupt. He’s sure Owen has a point.

“I mean - it had to, at some point. I was never gonna get through this scot free, come on, we both knew that,” Owen chokes out a laugh - it isn’t convincing, not in the slightest. “At least it wasn’t at home.”

“Yeah,” George acknowledges. He hadn’t thought of that, that something like that could have happened at Allianz Park, where Owen runs out near enough 20 times a year. “I said kind of the same, to Jonny, when it happened. That it had to happen some time.”

“Yeah,” Owen echoes.

“But it didn’t, Owen,” George tells him, passionate, crossing the street so he doesn’t need to worry about lowering his voice as a group of kids approach. “It _didn’t_ have to happen, that guy is, he’s -” George is at a loss for words. “The whole lot of them, how Glasgow could go on -” there really aren’t words, nothing strong enough for the rage George feels boiling through him. “ _They’re_ in the wrong, they’re so far in the wrong, I can’t -” George laughs, doubts it’s any more convincing that Owen’s was. 

“This wasn’t a natural consequence of what you did, wasn’t something that had to happen,” George refocuses himself. “It was that dickhead’s choice, what he did, and it was Glasgow’s choice to carry on, to pretend anything could be normal after that. It’s all on him, on them, not on you.”

“They’ve banned him already,” Owen tells him.

George grunts acknowledgement - they’d mentioned that on air, shown the tweet Glasgow had put out.

“Passed his details right onto Sarries so we could ban him too, without us even asking.”

“Good,” George nods, satisfied. “Good, he should be banned - they should ban him from the whole Champions Cup.” Nothing would be too much.

Owen laughs - almost convincing, this time. “I think that’d be a bit far, Georgie.”

“I don’t,” George answers - not playing into the teasing Owen was leaning towards. He can’t, he’s still too angry. He can feel fueling every step he takes, can feel it every time he forces his free hand to unclench from a fist, which is every time Owen speaks, every time George hears how raw he sounds. “There’s nothing - using what you’ve done, the _good_ that you’ve done, trying to ruin that, fucking, _weaponising_ that,” George shakes his head, despite the fact Owen can’t see him. “There’s nothing that’s too far. They could get the police involved,” he realises.

“I don’t think they’re going to do that.”

“It’s hate speech,” George says, plain and simple. “And not just at you, he knew full well he was loud enough to be heard - that was the point, after all. He wanted the stadium to hear it, obviously didn’t care if all the million people - all the thousands of _queer_ people - watching on TV did too. They should get the police involved.”

“We’ll see,” Owen says - sounding raw, again, after he’d almost made his way to teasing.

George bites his lip, curses himself. “Sorry,” he says, “Sorry, you don’t need me to be angry.”

“Don’t worry,” Owen assures him, wry - a step up from raw, George will take it. “I had it from Sarries at half time, the first few minutes post match - until they shoved me into this physio room to call you.”

George laughs, amused by the image. “I like your Sarries,” he tells Owen.

“They’re livid,” Owen tells George, sobering. “I’ve never seen Jamie so angry. Some of the Glasgow lads apologised on the pitch after the game - he wasn’t having it, nor was Brad really. Did you see his interview?”

“Brad’s?”

“Brad and Maro’s,” Owen corrects. “They did one together.”

Of course, Maro had been player of the match. “No,” George says. “I spotted you going down the tunnel, said my goodbyes as fast as I could.”

“Yeah, it was on the screens back in the changing rooms,” Owen says. “They were - yeah, not holding back. Brad was - I’ve never seen Brad that mad, or not when we’re not losing anyway.”

George laughs obligingly.

“And Maro - he didn’t look so mad but he called for the police same as you. He really ripped into the rest of the Glasgow fans who were booing, wouldn’t have it when the interviewer tried to brush it off.”

“I bet he did,” George says thoughtfully. He’ll have to find the video, surely it’s doing the rounds on twitter.

“And now you’ve told me more about how they’re feeling than about you,” George realises. He doubts Owen’s entire reaction can be summed up as ‘glad it happened’.

Owen blows out a breath. “I’m just -”

George curses himself as Owen’s voice breaks. He shouldn’t have pushed, not when he’s not there, can’t even _see_ Owen to know how he’s getting on.

“Fuck, I don’t even know,” another bitter laugh.

George bites his lip, wishing he could hold Owen close. Talking isn’t enough - he’s glad Sarries had made Owen call him, glad they’re getting this time, but it isn’t _enough_.

“It’s all - it’s too much,” Owen bursts out. “It’s not - what happened, that guy yelling out, fuck, how many times have we heard that word? I know it’s out there, we know it’s out there - that’s - that’s simple, really. It happened, it felt like shit. Then the rest of them started booing - I won’t go in as hard as Maro, but yeah, he’s right; it was endorsing it, building off it. Nothing I can’t handle, I’ve been in front of enough hostile crowds by now, but it did feel different. I actually thought, at half time - if this is the price I pay for telling people, I can take it.”

George draws in an angry breath, but Owen goes on before he can argue.

“I know it shouldn’t be, I know - but it’d be simple. But all of this? Brad and Maro in front of the cameras, Glasgow apologising, the lads pushing me in here to call you, the way you just know the media’ll report on it all week - that’s too much. All the lads staring at me, talking about it all the time - if it had just been what was on the pitch, I could deal with that. It’s the rest of it, it’s - it’s overwhelming. I’m not looking forward to the journey back, let me tell you.”

“Owen -” George just wants to _hold_ him. Owen’s voice hadn’t broken again, no - George isn’t sure anything could have paused the flood of words Owen had just spewed - but the pain was clear in every word. And George can understand, the line Owen is drawing, the distinction he’s making. Isn’t that part of what George is trying to avoid, after all, by not having Tigers know he’s queer? He’s sure he’ll still get dragged into conversations about it, but it won’t be like it must be for Owen, everyone wanting to go over it with him, making sure he knows they disapprove.

“Tell Brad,” George says, firm. “Or Mark. Get them in with you, right now, and tell them you don’t want to hear about it.”

Owen huffs out a laugh. “I can’t just bury my head in the sand, it’s nearly International window. The media -”

“So you get a briefing on the media, get told when something changes. Or you say just for today, for the flight back, you don’t want to hear it. Because you’re right, Owen,” George softens his tone. “It won’t go away otherwise. I’m sure you could handle it, I’m sure you could get through - but it’s exhausting, I _know_. They’ll understand, more than, if you ask them. You don’t need to go through it, so why make yourself?”

There’s a long pause, Owen digesting his words.

“Alright,” he says, on an exhale. “I’ll - I’ll tell Brad.”

“Tell him now,” George says, no nonsense. “Go call him in now, I’ll wait.”

“What? No, I’ll get him in a minute, Georgie -”

“I want to know you’ve done it,” George tells him. He bites his lip - that’s overbearing. He knows it’s overbearing, but he’s _worried_ , doesn’t want someone to say the wrong thing and Owen to break. “I’m sorry,” he says, before Owen can refuse again, before he needs call George out. “Fuck, I’m sorry, that was - too far, I’m sorry. I just - I hate that there’s nothing I can do,” he explains, biting his lip. He can’t do much, stuck hundreds of miles away from where Owen is. The only thing he can do is ask Owen to take care of himself, try to make sure he does.

“I get that,” Owen says, voice wry. Then - “Hello?” quiet, as if Owen’s lowered his phone.

More sound, too distant for George to make out.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Owen says, tinny. “Actually - come in a sec?” There’s a rustling, then Owen’s voice is clear in George’s ear once again. “It’s Brad,” he tells him.

George laughs, can’t help it. “You going to speak to him?” he teases.

“Yes, mum,” Owen laughs in return, voice warm.

George smiles to hear it.

“I thought you were calling your boyfriend!” George hears Brad exclaim.

“I am, he’s just being a prat,” Owen explains. “I’ll keep you on, yeah?” Owen says to George. “Put you on speaker so you can hear, check up on me?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” George returns, deadpan.

Owen laughs, “I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

“Yeah - in a bit, love.”

“He wanted -” Owen hits speaker his voice suddenly clearer “- _I_ wanted,” he corrects, stalls.

“Anything we can do,” Brad provides, immediate. Clear enough, though George has to boost his phone volume. “Anything, Faz, you know that.”

“Thanks, skip,” Owen replies. “I just - I don’t want to talk about it the whole way home,” the words escape in a rush. “All of this - what happened on the pitch I can deal with. Going over it 30 times, with everyone in the squad, all of that - I mean, I know it’s important, I guess it’s bonding, really -”

“Say no more,” Brad interrupts - which is lucky, because George really didn’t want to have to cut Owen off himself. “I’ll tell the lads while you finish up here - just wanted to let you know there are Glasgow blokes in here, offering apologies. I’ll send them away.”

“Fuck, no - I’ll speak to them.”

“You don’t -”

“No -” Owen cuts Brad off. “No, I should. It’s not their fault.”

“Alright, so I’ll go tell the lads while you finish up -”

“Can you - if you could not -”

“- I won’t say you asked, I’ll make out it’s my idea,” Brad assures Owen before he can get the words out.

George nods, impressed at Brad’s understanding. In the next instant he realises they might both have been wrong, Owen might have been asking for something other than Brad not letting on to the lads that he’d needed a break. 

“Thank you,” Owen says.

George smirks - yeah, he hadn’t thought he would be.

“Hopefully that’ll get those Glasgow pricks to keep it short.”

“Thanks, Brad,” Owen says, voice getting louder. “Did you hear that?” he asks George, clicking off speaker.

“Yeah,” George confirms.

“Sorry,” Owen interrupts, before he can say more. “Yeah, Brad?” his voice is distant again.

“Just - as far as they’re concerned someone’s looking at your knee, yeah? So don’t worry about your tough man image,” Brad tells Owen.

“Oh, don’t worry about _my_ image after I was _forced_ to call my boyfriend?”

“You seem better for it,” Brad replies, unrepentant. “And you call him after half the matches anyway, don’t think we haven’t noticed you sneaking off.”

“Yeah, alright,” Owen acknowledges, huffing out a laugh.

“Must be something special,” Brad teases.

“Eh,” and George can see Owen’s expression in his mind’s eye, the way he’d scrunch up his nose, affect doubt.

“Actually, can I talk to him?”

“I -” there’s a pause. 

George bites his lip. It’s been a few years since Brad was in England camp, and they hadn’t overlapped that much. Still -

“Better not,” Owen decides, or perhaps deduces from George’s silence.

“Fair enough,” Brad replies, nonchalant enough that George can almost can hear the shrug in it. “I’ll see you in a minute then, Faz.”

“See ya,” Owen bids.

“Sorry - you heard all that?” he asks George, a second later.

“Yeah, just about,” George tells him. “You gonna get those bastards to grovel for you?” he refers to the Glasgow players waiting for Owen. “See if you can’t wrangle the promise of a few points out of your next meeting.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Owen laughs.

“How is your knee?” George asks, before Owen can start saying goodbye.

“Oh - fine,” Owen acknowledges. “Should still be playing next weekend. I was actually using this physio room before the lads conspired to shove me back in!”

George laughs. “That’s good - how’re the others?”

“Bit more touch and go,” Owen tells him. “Mako’s out for sure.”

“Shit,” George curses.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “Ugh, I should -”

“You should.” 

There’s a moment of silence.

George bites his lip as his house comes into view. “Alright,” he says decisively. “I love you, go bully Glasgow, and - and take care, yeah?”

“As best I can,” Owen promises. “I’ll call you - we’ll see. Soon.”

“Yeah,” George accepts. “And hey - not long until camp.”

“Not long,” Owen agrees. “I love you too,” he adds, and hangs up.

George blows out a breath, lowering his phone from his ear.

He unlocks his house and disables the alarm, stopping in the hall to bring up twitter. He doesn’t even need to look for the video of Brad and Maro’s interview, finds it right at the top of his feed, retweeted by Jonny - George retweets it instantly. Then he pauses, thumb hovering over the play button. Does he want to watch the video, relive the strength of those emotions? 

George shoves his phone in his pocket - he trusts that Brad and Maro won’t have said anything he completely disagrees with, especially given that Jonny has retweeted their words. It’s a simple thing to retweet it, simpler than trying to find something to say himself. George needs that easy out, needs to step away from it all for as long as he can manage. It’s easier for him than for Owen, and George can only hope that Owen does get the distance he needs. 

They’ll inevitably both be talking about it at training tomorrow morning, after all.

~~~

George stops outside the door to the changing rooms the next morning, can’t help it. Then he shakes his head, pushing the door open. This isn’t like Bristol, where the homophobia was only implied. This is someone shouting out a slur, taking care to make sure Owen - to make sure _everyone_ \- heard it. He’s sure they’ll still talk about what happened, because what’s a rugby club without gossip? But George can’t imagine he has to worry about anyone defending it.

For the first half of the day George doesn’t even have to get involved in the discussion, sliding his way carefully out of a couple of conversations but otherwise only overhearing brief exchanges of condemnations. The impact of the incident is still clear - he receives a greeting hug from his brother, a fierce clap on the shoulder from Kyle, steady looks from Ben, Jonny, and Matty, but there’s nothing that requires anything of him. George doesn’t relax - that would just be tempting fate - but he does allow himself to feel relieved.

George is nearly ready to make his way to Tigers’ weekly debrief and build up meeting when his luck runs out.

“We could take notes from Glasgow on how to create a hostile environment, hey?” It’s Mike Fitzgerald, because of course it is.

George seriously considers just walking past, especially when he hears Guy Thompson’s reply -

“Not if it’s building off homophobia, for fuck’s sake,” Guy laughs incredulously.

It’s a good way to deal with it, making the disapproval clear without triggering too much defensiveness in response. Iit doesn’t work.

“Eh, that was one guy,” Mike shrugs Guy’s words off. “And if he’d actually managed to get Faz to miss - I mean, fair play, man, that’s hard to do.”

“You want to say that again?” George snaps, turning to the two of them.

This is not a good way to deal with it, George thinks, as Fitz refuses to take the bait. Anger is not the way to get people to listen - but sometimes it is necessary to show people just how far they’re going wrong, like when someone is advocating for _hate speech_. The internal justification flares his anger higher as Fitz finally meets his eyes.

“You want to say that to Geordie, to the RFU?” George raises an eyebrow, scornful. He’s furious, he hates what Fitz is saying, and he hates it enough that he doesn’t mind showing it.

“Fucking hell, it was a joke,” Fitz defends.

“Well it’s not _fucking_ funny,” George seethes, then takes a breath. There’s so much more he could say, but that should be enough to leave Fitz in no doubt as to his position, as to how unacceptable his joking was. He can - should - leave it there; he’s already drawing eyes from around the room, Jordan and Joe in particular.

George hasn’t heard Jordan say a word all day.

“Alright, okay,” Fitz turns to his kitbag, muttering. “He’s your best buddy, we know, we get it.”

Tom is looking over, too.

George snorts a laugh, packing it with disdain. “As if it matters who it is -” it does, of course it does, makes it all so much worse - but that doesn’t mean it’s not bad enough without it. “It matters what was said. It matters that it was fucking hate speech - or did you miss that Glasgow turned the prick over to the police? Did you miss the statement that they’ve done that for their fans, not for Owen? That they’ve done it because no one deserves to have to hear _slurs_ when they’re trying to enjoy a rugby match? Funnily enough _they_ seem to know there are things more important than whether or not a team concedes two fucking points - even a whole match!”

Fitz had looked up at George’s laugh but as George had gone on Fitz buried himself deeper and deeper into his kitbag, apparently looking for something lost in a corner.

George rolls his eyes, turns away. Fitz is never going to concede, but George will take his shame. He’ll take any response that means Fitz will shut the hell up. Tom doesn’t seem so satisfied, still eyeing Fitz with a frown. George doesn’t respond to that, can’t, because the next person to catch his eye is Geordan Murphy. 

Geordie’s standing in the doorway, frowning, and jerks his head in summons when he makes eye contact with George.

George swallows, making his way out to the corridor, following Geordie’s lead towards their meeting room. He can’t be in too much trouble, not if Geordie isn’t making a point to call him out in front of Fitz. Still, as the anger in his gut recedes a kind of sick unsteadiness take its place. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. 

“I’m sorry,” George says, when they’re far enough away from the locker room not to be overheard. No matter how true it is, he doesn’t want Fitz to hear him saying it. George just hopes Geordie isn’t going to ask him to apologise. “Probably should have been calmer,” George can admit. _Probably should have apologised better_ , he thinks in the next moment when Geordie doesn’t respond, leading them into a room next door to the meeting room the squad are due in in 15 minutes. 

“What?” Geordie blinks at him, shutting the door behind them. “Oh, no. I mean, of course don’t make a habit of speaking like that to your teammates,” he amends hastily - and George knows he’s right about that, bites his lip. “But no, Fordy, that’s not what I brought you here to discuss. I didn’t catch the start but I trust you weren’t reacting in any way that was uncalled for, and it’s not as if you said anything out of line. Don’t worry about that, jeez,” Geordie shakes his head.

“What did you want to talk to me about, then?” George frowns.

“I wanted to see how you were,” Geordie looks at George, expression expectant.

George blinks.

“What happened at the weekend should never have happened. Faz shouldn’t have had to go through it, and I want to make it clear to you that I - we, Tigers - will do everything in our power to make sure you never have to.”

“I - thank you,” George manages. “But I’m not - I’m not planning on coming out in my career, you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

Geordie shakes his head sharply. “I understand that, that’s not what I meant,” he says. “Of course you shouldn’t have to worry about targeted harassment, but beyond that I wanted to assure you that we will to make it clear to the fans and our players that the sort of atmosphere Glasgow created will never be tolerated here.”

George nods slowly. This wasn’t what he had expected from this conversation. “Owen won’t be playing here this year, either. Our Sarries home game is over the Internationals.”

“It’s on the Rainbow Laces weekend, yes,” Geordie agrees, “but we don’t want anything to happen then - or ever - targeted or not. Our reaction isn’t necessarily about Farrell the same way it isn’t necessarily about you. What happened this weekend was a disgrace,” he spits. “Rugby is a sport that welcomes everyone, that’s how I’ve always known it. Our reaction is about stamping hard on this first indication that it might not be, keeping the promise we make to our players and fans of a safe environment.”

The passion is clear in Geordie’s words. George can only nod acceptance of them; he’s never known rugby that way, not really, but it’s clearly an idea Geordie feels strongly about, and George can’t deny the draw of it. 

“I’ll go over that at the meeting,” Geordie goes on, shaking his head. “I only wanted to check in with you first, see if there was anything we could do to support you? I missed what Fitz said, and I didn’t want to interrupt and make it clear I was pulling you aside -” Geordie pulls a face as if he regrets that “- but I was always planning to make it clear to our players that these attitudes are not the kind of thing we want to endorse, not what we mean when we talk about hostile environments.”

“You should cover what he said, then,” George shrugs. “I’m - I’m doing alright, yeah. The lads haven’t talked about it too much, honestly, I’ve managed to avoid it alright.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Geordie replies, serious. “And I’m sorry to break that with these meetings!”

George ducks his head, laughing. “Thanks, Geordie,” he says, sincere. He’d never expected consideration from his head coach on this. His friends, yes, but not Geordie. 

There’s a knock on the door, “It’s Tom,” the call comes in Tom Youngs’ distinctive voice. “Geordie in there? He wanted a word before the group meeting.”

“Yes, come in, Tom,” Geordie replies.

Tom slips in, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Y’alright there Fordy?” Tom asks as soon as he sets eyes on George, not even glancing back to Geordie.

George shrugs. “Not bad,” he answers, awkward in the face of such concentrated concern.

“You did a good job putting Fitz in his place - I tried to back it up after you left, didn’t want to step in while you were handling him.”

“I’d like to hear more about what happened with Fitz,” Geordie frowns. “But what I asked you here for, Tom, was to discuss the start of this review meeting - I want to take a moment before we start to go over what happened at the weekend, talk to the squad on the unacceptability of homophobia within the sport from my position as head coach for the first time. I was just checking in with Fordy here first.” He turns back to George, “Your input is, of course, welcome on the matter - but you’re also welcome to head to the meeting, if there’s nothing we can do for you first?”

“Yeah, I’ll show my face,” George decides. Coming in with Geordie and Tom, when sexuality is on the agenda, when his teammates must be wondering about him anyway - it’s not scrutiny he needs to put himself under right now. “I think I’m good.”

“We’ll see you in a minute, then,” Geordan smiles at George in dismissal. 

George pauses as he reaches the door. “The only thing -” he turns back to the two of them. “Owen wouldn’t appreciate being made the centre of this, and I don’t think it’d be so great to have one scapegoat at the heart of it with the lads, either. Like - I know that’s not how you’re approaching it, Geordie, you said already about the fans, about the rugby environment, but - just to say.”

“Of course,” Geordie nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And just - thanks,” George repeats, catching both their eyes for as long as he can manage before his gaze to the floor. “I - seriously, thank you.”

“Not at all, Fordy,” Tom dismisses, Geordie shaking his head next to him.

George just shrugs, before escaping into the corridor.

He takes a breath, checks his phone. Ten minutes to the meeting, not enough time to make it to the break room, make coffee, and get back. There’s no reason not to go straight in, sit amongst his teammates. 

George leans against the wall, flicking absently through random apps. He pulls up his texts - nothing from Owen since they’d wished each other luck this morning, signing off from their discussion of the overnight revelation that Glasgow were involving the police in the matter, their review of the headlines.

George takes another breath. 

Two minutes, then he’ll go in. Just two more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was a lot! Or it felt it to me. I hope you enjoyed - and I promise, England camp is coming, we'll get some nice calm time together soon! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for continued reaction to the homophobic incident in chapter 25.

When George enters the meeting room a good half of the squad are already waiting there, though none of Joe, Ben, or Jonny have made it yet. In their abscence George slips into a free seat next to Jordan towards the front, away from most of the others.

“Alright?” he asks Jordan, voice low.

“Alright,” Jordan returns, eyes fixed on his phone. 

George doesn’t think Jordan has even registered who’s sat next to him. “That good hey?”

Now Jordan looks up, quirking half a smile when he makes eye contact with George. “Pretty much.” 

“I get that,” George mirrors the expression. “Day’s nearly over now,” he offers. They’re free after the review meeting.

Jordan only nods, smile fading.

George frowns, but they’re interrupted by the arrival of Joe and Manu bearing coffee.

“Thought you’d want a cup Fordy,” Joe passes one over.

“Thanks, Joe,” George replies, touched, smiling at Joe as he takes the seat next to him.

“He makes better coffee than you mate,” Manu tells George.

“I know,” George shakes his head ruefully. “Need to find a way to sneak him into England camp for your coffee club competitions, maybe that way I’d stand a chance.”

“I feel like some of your teammates might be able to tell the difference,” Joe laughs.

“Eh, only some of them,” George shrugs.

“How’ve you been then lads?” Manu asks, leaning back against the row of seats in front of them. “Day off all good?”

“Yeah not bad,” Joe replies. “Went on a dog walk yesterday evening, nice to stretch out the legs.”

“It was - yeah, fine,” George says. “Not much going on.”

“Rude!”

George startles at Ben’s cry from behind them, cursing as he almost spills his coffee. He turns to glare at Ben and finds Jonny grinning next to him - they must’ve come in the back set of doors, Ben was probably planning this.

“Jonny here invited you to his out of the goodness of his heart only for you to dismiss it as ‘not much’?” Ben goes on. “I thought he was an excellent host, didn’t you?”

George looks at Ben blankly. “I missed Sophie.”

“Rude!” Jonny echoes Ben. “Though, actually, she did say she was sad to miss you,” he adds.

“No! Jonny, you can’t let this stand,” Ben interrupts before George can reply. “You were a picture perfect host, made us an excellent cuppa - Fordy, did you not have a great time?"

George arches an eyebrow at Ben, safe in the knowledge that Manu is at his back. “Yeah,” he drawls. “I had a _great_ time watching Sarries, it was my _dream_ match experience.”

“That’s more like it,” Ben beams, ignoring the sarcasm.

Joe snorts at George’s side, and Jonny looks faintly perturbed. George glances at Jordan to find him back on his phone. It feels rude to leave him out of the conversation, but neither does George want to drag him in if he doesn’t want to talk. 

“It was a good game,” Manu agrees, oblivious. “Could you not find time to see your girlfriend, Fordy?”

George turns back to face Manu, shrugs. “Nah, working mate.”

“That’s a shame,” Manu frowns down at him. “You should get her up for a game, you know we’d all love to meet her.”

“It’s tough when people’ve gotta work weekends,” Jonny steps in.

“Yeah, imagine choosing a job where you’ve gotta do that,” Ben scoffs. “Imagine how stupid you’d have to be.”

“I’m looking at a great example of it right now Lenny,” Jonny says.

“Hey,” Joe nudges George in the side, his voice low under the cover of Ben’s retort. “How is your partner?”

Joe had texted Owen yesterday, George knows, but he’s not sure if Owen had found the energy to reply to Joe among the millions of concerned and outraged texts he’d received. He shrugs. “Alright this morning,” George replies as Jonny provokes Ben once more. “We’ll see how it went through the day.”

“They worried about that?” Joe frowns.

“Nah, nothing in particular to worry about,” George assures Joe. “Just - it’s tiring, y’know?” 

George glances at Jordan, still focussed intently on his phone. He thinks Jordan understands. It looks like Joe might too, from his frown, but Geordie and Tom come in before he can reply.

“Alright lads, settle down,” Geordie calls. Tom leans against the wall at the front as the squad take a minute to do so, Manu dropping into the seat next to Joe. “Everyone here?” Geordie checks, to a round of assent.

“Now, before we get into the meeting proper I - we - wanted to address what happened at Glasgow this weekend.”

Despite knowing it was coming George still finds himself crossing his arms defensively, registers Jordan sinking lower in the seat next to him.

“I’d hope that you would all understand my position already,” Geordan goes on, “but on the back of such shocking behaviour I thought it best to be completely clear.

“What happened at Glasgow this weekend was abhorrent,” Geordan lets the words sit as he surveys the room. “No player should ever have to endure something like that, no person should. Rugby is a welcoming, diverse sport: this is something we pride ourselves on. Language like that should never be heard around our grounds, certainly not in a targeted manner. Now, we’re not football, lads -” there’s a round of laughing agreement, though George himself stays focused on Geordie. “This kind of behaviour is unprecedented - and as such there is no clear structure of sanctions for poor fan behaviour. For now the leagues are holding off on establishing one in the hopes that it won’t be needed, and as a sign that we don’t anticipate such an incident ever happening again. 

“What we _will_ be doing in response is banning the fan in question, for life, from our ground. I’ve been in contact with head coaches of other clubs in the Champions Cup and Premiership this morning, along with representatives from the RFU and Scottish Rugby, and we were all keen to take this step. Everyone wanted to make a stand, and this evening - well, hopefully this evening, but certainly by tomorrow - a joint video and statement will go up from all of us announcing the bans and condemning what happened. I wanted to take this opportunity to reassure you that we’re taking this incident as seriously as I know all of you do, and keep you in the loop of what you can expect in terms of response. 

“There is no place for homophobia in Leicester Tigers, never has been, and never will be. This is true of our fans, and it’s true of our squad too,” Geordie surveys the room on those words, George managing to keep a sceptical expression off his face for their moment of eye contact. Never has been? George vividly remembers incidents that prove that false, remembers Geordie in the background of some of them. He guesses Geordie doesn’t. “If anyone has any further ideas for action we could take please do let us know. Thank you.”

“Now it’s time for my bit,” Tom pushes off the wall. “Geordie took me aside to brief me on all that just now and we got on to the standard of behaviour within our club. I - we - wanted to let you lads know that we have noticed and appreciated how much less homophobic language has been used this year. Obviously we knew there was never any real intent behind it -”

George’s eyebrow flies up his forehead before he schools his face back into impassivity.

“- and that’s been proved by how quickly and well we’ve been able to cut it out of our banter. Me and Geordie really appreciate and respect all the work that’s been done to get us as a squad to the stage where such language and sentiments are rarely heard, and that when it is it’s called out. 

“We’re a team here, all of us, and part of that is looking out for your teammates. It’s more likely than not, statistically, that we have a teammate who is gay, or bisexual, whether that’s playing or support staff, or wherever.” 

There’s a rustling among the squad, but George keeps his gaze fixed on Tom. He doesn’t want to see his teammates eyeing each other up speculatively, doesn’t want to know how many of his teammates are looking at _him_.

“I’m proud of us for the work we’ve put in this year to change our habits around this kind of language and make sure we’re looking out for those people. Frankly it shouldn’t have taken us so long but as soon as we started taking it seriously we’ve cut this shit right out and that shows something about how much you care about your fellow teammates, that says something about the heart of this club. 

“I’d actually -” Tom straightens his shoulders. “I’d like to apologise to anyone who might have been affected by such language in the past, however they were affected,” he starts to survey the room, gaze lingering on each player. “Because people will have been hurt by it, whether that’s because they were gay, or whatever, or just because they were subject to banter that didn’t sit right.”

George averts his gaze before Tom’s eyes can reach him, trying to force down memories of being 16, getting into the Tigers senior side for the first time, and hearing them throw ‘pansy’ around practically every other insult. His academy squadmates had used ‘gay’ as a pejorative more often, but at least George had heard them claim they didn’t mean it ‘like that’ when the development coach made half an effort to scold them. There were no such claims in the senior squad, and no such criticism. From the limp wristed gestures they were flinging around alongside the words George hadn’t imagined there ever would be.

“It shouldn’t have taken us so long to eliminate that kind of language, and I’m frankly ashamed of myself for not making a move on it earlier. It shouldn’t have taken a player coming out publically for me - and I can’t say for us, here, because some players were calling it out before. It shouldn’t have taken that for me to properly consider the power of the words that were being thrown around in our squad. Behaviour like that has a massive impact, and that holds true whether I thought the person saying it meant it or not. My assumptions of people’s motivations weren’t a good enough excuse for how I’ve let thus stuff slide under my captaincy. I didn’t respect the power and impact of those kind of behaviours, and I’m sorry. There’s no place for that in our squad, no place for it in rugby, and I’m sorry that I let it have one.”

There’s an awkward pause before Ben starts to applaud, George joining in a heartbeat later. It feels like an odd response to an apology, but it’s not like he wants to stand up and say ‘it’s fine’ in front of the whole squad, not least because it isn’t. 

George appreciates the apology and won’t hold Tom’s past behaviour against him, but he also agrees with every word Tom just said. It _shouldn’t_ have taken Owen coming out publically - or more likely George coming out to Tom - for him to think about the impact in the squad. George can’t say it’s fine that he didn’t, because it has hurt people.

Geordie claps Tom on the shoulder before he goes to sit, waits for the response from the squad to die down before speaking again.

“I should echo Tom’s apology,” he says. “As a player, then a member of the coaching team, I should have spoken out on this far more strongly than I had a long time ago,” he lets that sit for a second, no applause this time. He doesn’t look at George, doesn’t directly look at anyone as far as George can tell. “Now unless anyone else wants to talk on the matter I think we’ll wrap it up there?” 

There’s a pause, no response. 

“Excellent,” Geordie claps his hand. “Let me just get the computer set up and we’ll move onto our match review.”

The squad break into quiet chatter as Geordie turns his attention to his laptop.

“I’m sure Faz’ll appreciate all this fuss being made over him,” Joe jokes to George.

George shrugs, turning his attention from the tension still in Jordan’s posture. “Not really about him, is it?” He thought Geordie and Tom had been good on that, never so much as mentioning Owen, but he can see why Joe would still have been thinking of him. 

“No,” Joe agrees, thoughtful. “It’s good, anyway, that they’re taking it seriously.”

“Yeah,” Manu agrees from Joe’s other side. “I texted Faz this weekend - he hasn’t replied, but I bet he got a lot of texts. It’s like Geordie said - this isn’t football. We shouldn’t see any of that.”

“I texted him too,” Ben drapes himself over the back of Joe’s chair to get involved. “Got nothing. Jonny? Fordy?”

Jonny shakes his head. “But he sent that message on the England group chat saying that he was fine, and thanks. If we all texted him I don’t blame him not replying to one by one.”

“Yeah, and they had to travel back from Glasgow, he’ll barely have had five minutes rest before training today - I bet the Sarries lads kept him busy on the flight home,” George carefully doesn’t answer the question.

“Hope he’s alright,” Manu says seriously, the last word on the topic before Geordie attracts their attention to talk rugby once again.

~

George spends his drive home from training convincing himself that he doesn’t need a nap, somehow succeeding even though he’s honestly not sure it’s true. What he _does_ know is true is that if he naps so late in the day he’ll only mess up his regular sleep, so whether he needs the rest or not he’s not going to get it. 

To avoid temptation George stays downstairs when he gets home, cleaning the lounge on autopilot and wishing there was more to do. He goes over the kitchen too before making himself tea, filling the time before he and Owen are scheduled to call. George puts an episode of Peaky Blinders on with his food but realises ten minutes in that he’ll need to rewatch it, eyes following the motion on the screen but little more. He waits, and waits, until he can finally call Owen.

“Hi, love,” George greets, a smile pushing through when Owen picks up the call almost instantly.

“Hi Georgie,” Owen returns the expression. “How was your day?”

“Yeah, alright,” George replies automatically. “How was yours?”

“Not bad,” Owen shrugs.

George nods. 

There’s silence between them until an explosion on Peaky Blinders makes George start.

Owen starts laughing, awkward at first but giving his body into the release as George joins him. George shakes his head at himself, at them, as he turns the TV off. He’s been waiting to call Owen since he got in and now he can’t find anything to say? 

“Shall we try that again?” Owen asks, a smile still playing around his mouth. “How was your day?”

“Owen,” George lets his head fall back. “I am so, so tired.”

“Yeah?” Owen prompts, George looking back to find him frowning.

“Yeah,” George sighs. “Didn’t sleep so well,” he admits. “Then - the lads were alright, bit of a thing with Fitz -”

“- I’m starting to hate hearing that name,” Owen’s frown turns to a scowl.

“You and me both,” George agrees. “But it’s just - you know, no one pushed, but it’s not great to hear that kind of discussion all day.”

“I know.”

“You probably had it worse, fuck, I don’t -”

“George,” Owen cuts him off. “I asked how your day was, yeah, I didn’t ask how you thought it compared to mine - carry on.”

“Yeah,” George manages a smile, melting at Owen’s clear concern. He runs Owen through his conversations with Geordie and Tom, their apologies ahead of and in the review/weekend preparation meeting. “Think going over all those tactics stole the last of my energy,” he quirks a smile.

“I’m not surprised,” Owen shakes his head. “They loaded a lot into that meeting, huh?”

George shrugs - yeah, Owen’s probably right to imply that it was too much, but it’s done with now, even if its effect on his brain is still lingering. “It was a bit of a rough review,” he tells Owen, doubting it’ll surprise him. “Lot of big talk about Scarlets -” he pulls a face “- we’ll see; Jonny should be back, so there’s that.”

“But your day was alright?” Owen teases. “Even though you’re exhausted, you went with ‘alright’?” 

George shrugs. “It was.” It could have been worse.

Owen doesn’t seem best pleased with that. “I’d hate to hear about a bad day.”

George ignores him. “How was your day?” he asks. “Really, this time?”

“Not bad,” Owen repeats his initial response - thoughtfully, now. “Did get a fair few lads - a lot of the academy boys, lads who hadn’t been with us at the weekend - coming up to talk about it all at the start of the day, but I think the rest of the squad got the idea that I didn’t want to dwell what happened, so it dried up by lunch. Most of the boys asked how I was doing, but same as you were saying, they didn’t press. Brad and Mark briefed me on the video before it went up -”

“It’s out?” George asks. He hadn’t seen.

“Yeah,” Owen looks at him oddly. “Went up at like five?”

“Haven’t been on my phone since I got home - haven’t done much, honestly.” 

Concern returns to Owen’s expression. “It’s good,” he tells George. “You should watch, I think you’d like it.”

“I’ll need to by tomorrow anyway,” George shrugs. It’s not quite his idea of a good time, but he’ll need to be briefed if he wants to - or, more likely, in case he needs to - take part in conversation on the topic tomorrow. “How were Brad and Mark?” he asks. “Still angry?”

Owen laughs. “Yeah, a bit,” he says. “Less though - Brad managed to hold back on ranting long enough to ask how I was doing.”

George arches an eyebrow. “He didn’t at the match?”

Owen shrugs. “Mark asked.”

George raises his other eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Look, I’m not sure I could have handled working through the whole thing midmatch anyway, it was for the best,” Owen dismisses. “Brad and the rest of them had a good rant, got that out, and when they were over it we managed to get onto rugby, which was what I needed.”

“I guess,” George concedes, though he doesn’t bother to hide his frown. “So long as they’re looking out for you now.”

“Maro actually apologised for not asking how I was doing yesterday, said he’d got wrapped up in the ‘larger significance of the event’,” Owen mimes air quotes, his expression more fond than exasperated. “Bit awkward, honestly.”

“I support he’s alright, our Maro,” George approves, letting a smile break through as Owen laughs.

George’s eyes rest on the laughter lines that have creased Owen’s face as he goes on, “I don’t know if Jinx overheard Maro or whatever but he texted me at lunch - from the same table, the absolute weirdo - saying he didn’t want to make me talk about what happened but he’d listen if I needed to, that he hoped I was okay.”

“Yeah, he’s alright too.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “I told you a bunch of the lads asked - only satisfied now it’s lads you know, is that it?”

George shrugs. “I’d still rather be there to do it myself, but yeah, sure, I’m glad to hear you’ve got lads I trust looking out for you.”

“I’d rather you were here too,” Owen sighs.

“You want me to come down?” George asks, immediate. “I could, after training tomorrow.”

Owen bites his lip, but shakes his head. “You’ve got a Friday match, right?”

“Yeah - Saturday lunch with my family too,” George tells him. “Thought I could head straight down to yours after that, be there when you get back from your game?” 

“Stay until England camp?” Owen assumes, smile lighting up his face when George nods. “That sounds perfect, Georgie. Hopefully I’ll’ve stopped wanting to curse that dickhead out by then, be more pleasant company.”

“You’re always pleasant company,” George rolls his eyes, leaning into Owen’s light tone. Owen hasn’t mentioned being angry before - George had noticed the absence yesterday, when it had been the only thing other than worry that George himself could feel.

“Not if I let loose right now,” Owen jokes. “I did consider ranting at Jamie when he offered but I didn’t much enjoy listening to him go on in the locker room, seemed a bit harsh to make him sit through the exact same stuff.”

“Let’s have it then,” George prompts, rolling his eyes when Owen shakes his head.

“Nothing you haven’t heard, I’m sure,” Owen dismisses, and then, more serious - “I know you’re tired of it.”

George smiles, warm at the consideration. He _is_ tired of the discussion, but not too much to listen to Owen, not if he needs it. He feels better than he had when he got home, in any case. “I’ve not heard it from you. Besides, you’re pretty when you’re ranting,” he adds blithely. “So get to.”

“Yeah, alright,” Owen concedes easily, laughing in surprise when George raises an expectant eyebrow. “I just - fuck, it’s all the stuff from the video, you should really watch it. It’s - I can’t believe he had the _balls_ to do something like that in a place with so many people. Like, that he thought he could get away with it, never mind that he was targeting them as much as he was me. Wanting to show all of them that he wouldn’t have me, wouldn’t have _us_ , would personally stand up and try to make sure we suffer for fucking daring to be open about who we are - not, not even that. Because it affects everyone, yeah, affected you as much as it did me - “ 

George isn’t sure about that, when Owen was the target, but he’d hate to interrupt now Owen’s got a flow going, a flush building as he starts to gesticulate. 

“- so he’s doing it to us, what? ‘cause we exist? Can’t fucking help that. The prick,” Owen spits, eyes bright with passion. “That he wanted to use _our_ sport like this, to get himself all over the fucking headlines, that he - fuck, more than anything, I hate that he made it _my_ fault -”

“No,” George denies, immediate, as Owen’s voice cracks. “No, love, no. It’s on nothing but him, you know that. He’s an asshole and he chose to be, that’s not on you.”

“If I hadn’t come out he wouldn’t yelled out at a match, wouldn’t have got all this attention,” Owen says, resignation replacing the anger from before.

“If you hadn’t come out he’d be saying it to his mates, every match,” George says, sees it hit home. “They’d have to put up with it and so would everyone around them. Instead, everyone’s pushing back, showing that we won’t take this.”

“Won’t we?” Now Owen sounds as tired as George feels. “What does it say, that he thought he _could_ get away with it, huh? After all this. What does it say that I thought he was right?”

“Honestly, Owen, I did too,” George admits, shaking his head. “But he’s not. They’ve put out that video, they’ve made a statement, Glasgow has given him to the _police_ \- everyone’s taking it seriously, saying we won’t have it. This sport is making a move to kick out the homophobia that honestly, a year ago, I couldn’t imagine it without. 

“When Tom apologised today, in our meeting, he said it shouldn’t have taken someone coming out for him to think about what homophobia in the squad was doing, and he was right. But it _has_ , it’s made people realise the harm they might be doing, the harm their friends might be doing, and it’s made them stop. _That’s_ because of you, if anything has to be.”

Owen shakes his head, but slowly, his expression conflicted

“Tell me about the video?” George prompts. He thinks it’ll help.

“I - it’s everyone,” Owen begins. “Every head coach and club captain from the Champions Cup and the Prem, then Gregor Townsend and Laidlaw, and Eddie and Dylan too. It’s like - they all read out the statement, a couple of words each, saying he was banned from all the club grounds - and Twickenham, and Murrayfield - and that there’s no place for this kind of thing in rugby, it’s -” Owen shakes his head, and this time he’s smiling. 

“You’ve got to watch it, Georgie. It’s all that stuff you hear, that rugby’s a sport for all, that everyone’s welcome, but I - I almost believe it, you know, hearing them say it together like that, seeing this reaction. I almost believe it.”

Seeing Owen’s expression, George almost does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing a week, I hope you enjoyed! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	28. Chapter 28

George pulls onto his drive after training on Wednesday tired but satisfied, practice for the week starting to pull together with a day in hand and conversation finally moving on from the incident in Glasgow in favour of the England squad announcement due the next day.

He checks his phone automatically as he walks to the front door, wondering if their offset match days and training schedules will mean he’s home earlier than Owen for once. Two missed calls suggest not.

Why two? 

One call is enough to let George know that Owen wants to talk, enough to ensure he’ll ring him back. What is the second call for? What had Owen needed to talk to George about so urgently?

George hurries inside, hits call between the front door and his alarm keypad. 

“Hiya!” Owen greets.

“Alright?” George asks, immediate.

“Yeah, you?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” George dismisses. “What did you want to talk about?”

A grin splits Owen’s face and George relaxes, shoulders slumping. It’s okay, Owen’s okay.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Owen says, grinning so hard George feels himself return the expression despite his confusion. “You didn’t hear this until - it’s tomorrow, the news comes out. Or I think it’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah, of course,” George agrees, when Owen seems to get distracted by that. George’s mind is racing. Tomorrow - the England squad comes out tomorrow.

“Me and Dylan are gonna be co-captains!” Owen beams.

“Owen!” George exclaims. “Fuck, Owen, that’s incredible, congratulations! Co-captains,” he blows out a breath. “When’s the last time England had co-captains?”

“Not sure we ever have to be honest.”

“But you’re so good you’ve given him no choice,” George teases, watching as Owen’s smile switches from delighted to smug at the praise. 

Owen shrugs, affecting modesty. “I mean - I thought now Dylan was back, you know -”

“Yeah,” George acknowledges. He’d kind of thought the same. As much as he’d been impressed by Owen’s leadership he also hadn’t thought himself the most impartial observer, hadn’t been sure Eddie would feel the same. “But you’re too good to drop, obviously,” he reiterates, smiling fondly, doesn’t allow his expression to flicker when he remembers just how clearly that’s _not_ the case for him recently. That's his issue, brought up by his own wording more than Owen's success. There's no need for it to sully this moment.

Owen shakes his head, looking disbelieving.

“I’m so happy for you,” George tells him. “I’m so - I’m so _proud_ of you.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” Owen says, eyes soft. “And hey - you should get 50 caps this series. I’m proud of you too, you know?”

“We’ll see,” George downplays. He’d honestly almost forgotten, focus shifting to making sure he gets a cap rather than just how many he’s on. “You’ve see the full squad then?”

“Eddie video called me and Dyl this afternoon, we went over it all,” Owen nods. “You’ll see soon enough though, no spoilers!”

George laughs, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t ask - reckon he told those who hadn’t made it this morning anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Jordan had a meeting with some of the coaches, and judging by his focus…,” George trails off. There’s nothing like disappointment to get you working harder, something George knows all too well from the start of the year at Leicester. He just hopes it hasn’t affected Jordan too negatively - he’d been a bit more talkative the day before after his silence on Monday, but with the England news he’d been quiet again all day.

“Yeah,” Owen pulls a face. “It’s a shame for him.”

“I thought you said no spoilers!”

Owen winces, before miming zipping his lips. “Can’t wait to get into camp now,” he says after only a moment of silence. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“Me neither,” George smiles. “Three days until I’m down at yours.” 

Only three days until they can dedicate all their time to each other, until they’re seeing each other day in day out for over a month. 

The start of the season has been tough, George won’t pretend otherwise, and he’s pretty sure Owen would admit it too. George wouldn’t change things but he is looking forward to being able to see his partner every day, being able to touch him every day, however little that is. And he doesn’t think it will only be a little. Portugal might be difficult, sure, but when they make it back to the single rooms of Pennyhill Park they’re practically free. 

Private space to themselves and a month of time - George can’t wait.

~

Before the match against Scarlets George is stressed, nerves buzzing from an unexpected call up to captain with Tom withdrawing from the squad, worried about what he’s going to leave behind in this struggling Tigers’ side at his last match before the break. 

After the match George is buzzing once more, now with delight at the performance of the squad, excitement at the way Manu had played and the prospect of bringing that to England. Leicester hadn’t put out a perfect performance by any means - George can’t claim to be proud of the defence they’d put out on the pitch. But what he _is_ proud of is the way the lads had played through that. They’d kept their focus despite the concessions, not let it get into their heads, and ultimately played well enough in other areas to make up for what was lacking. At this point, George will eagerly take Leicester playing ‘well enough’.

George takes his moment as captain after the match to tell the lads how proud he is of their attitude, trying to hone in on qualities he hopes they can maintain during his and the other international players’ time away. Something in George aches to be leaving them now, just when they’ve shown what they can do - but a larger part of him is excited be back with England, with _Owen_ , and frankly relieved not to have left to squad in a worse place.

Some of lads have started to trundle out when Kyle pulls George into a headlock. “We’re gonna miss you Fordy,” Kyle says, mussing his hair. 

“Get off,” George protests, tugging at Kyle’s hold.

“Won’t you miss us too?” Kyle presses.

“Won’t miss this,” Georg insists, breaking free and keeping his head ducked to hide a smile.

“Funny how you think you’ll get a break from this,” Ben laughs, trying to pull George into a headlock of his own.

George wriggles free of this one, elbowing Ben in the stomach and escaping when Ben prioritises a dramatic response over securing his hold on George. “Maybe I’d be better off staying here, getting away from you!”

“Fordy! You don’t mean that!”

“Don’t I?” George asks, dry.

“You wouldn’t leave us,” Ben states.

“We’d miss you,” Jonny calls from across the room, “Don’t punish England for Lenny being a dick.”

“Oh, so _George_ would be missed in England, _and_ in Tigers,” Matty joins in. “I see how it is. No one’s even told me they’d miss me from Tigers yet.”

“We’ve lost you a few times already this season, can’t say I missed you,” Kyle grins at Matty, sharp.

Matty clutches his chest as if wounded. “Ouch!”

“I’m getting used to playing at 12, as far as I’m concerned you can go off to Australia as long as you want,” Kyle tells him.

“Harsh but fair,” Matty nods acknowledgement. “Maybe I’ll stick with 10 then, usurp Fordy here when I come back.”

“You tried it in the Six Nations,” George shrugs.

“We should talk to Geordie,” Matty proposes, eyes laughing. “Get the starting 10 spot as extra weight on our game?”

“You’re going down,” Ben scoffs. “No need to put more on it and make things worse for yourself.”

“We’ll see about that!”

“How long has it been since you lot have beaten us again?” George asks.

“It’s all gonna change,” Matty claims. “This is the squad, we’ve got the best bunch of lads together, you’re going down this time for sure.”

“The best bunch of lads?” Kyle echoes. “You’ve got Folau, I feel like that disqualifies you.”

“He is good.” Ben is the one to counter with Matty just pulling a face. 

“Good motivation for us,” George says. Playing Folau, on Rainbow Laces weekend - they can’t lose. Owen won’t let them.

“Not so much for us,” Matty admits.

George raises his eyebrows - it’s not much, but he’d never expect to hear anyone talk ill of their national team to the opposition. The fact that Matty will proves just what an exception Folau is, especially now.

“Hey,” George turns to Kyle as Ben presses Matty on that. “Keep an eye on Fitz while I’m gone, yeah?” he asks, voice low. He’s sure Tom will, honestly trusts most of his teammates to stand up if needed, but it can’t hurt to ask.

“Of course,” Kyle replies, expression solemn.

George claps him on the shoulder, squeezing - he’s glad Kyle had come to Leicester. He’d hadn’t been happy to have someone in his space, but it had turned out pretty well. 

“You take care, hey?” Kyle wraps an arm around George’s waist, pulls him in for a brief squeeze. “Have fun with your lad - your lads,” Kyle winks at his faux correction, George rolling his eyes while suppressing a smile. “No getting injured with those England losers, anything like that,” Kyle goes on, burying his reference to Owen. “Get back to your proper club quick as you can, yeah?”

George laughs. “I can’t promise that - hopefully I won’t see you till the Sarries match!”

“You gonna come to that?” Kyle seems surprised.

George hasn’t asked Owen yet, but he figures it makes sense for the two of them to watch the game. “Probably,” he shrugs. “But I’m not trying to get home any sooner!” he reiterates. He hasn’t been ditched mid-camp in years, there’s no way he’s letting it happen now.

Kyle rolls his eyes, laughing. “That’s fair enough. I’ll see you then, hey?”

“See you then,” George bids, the first in what quickly turns into a round of goodbyes.

Jordan is one of the last, coming to George after an extended conversation with Jonny.

“Alright?” George smiles at him encouragingly.

“Yeah,” Jordan bites his lip. “Good luck?” he offers.

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither does George. George feels there should be something but they’re both of them still stuck in limbo, nothing technically connecting them beyond a shared club and a couple of quiet conversations. George feels like there’s more, thinks Jordan does too, but it’s nothing either of them have openly acknowledged.

“You too,” George says. “Though I guess you might not be seeing the Cup matches this year, hey?”

Jordan shrugs, head ducked to hide a smile. “Maybe not,” he demurs. “Sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you though.”

Now it’s George’s turn to shrug. “We’ll see - can’t ever take too much for granted, not with England.”

George thinks he should be okay, thinks he’s playing better. He _hopes_ he should be back in that starting 10 shirt alongside Owen - but you never know.

Jordan makes eye contact, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you,” he reiterates, just a touch sarcastically. He wouldn’t have stood up like that at the start of the year, too busy jumping at his own shadow.

“Thanks Jord,” George smiles, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and bringing him in for quick ruffle of his hair.

“You take care, yeah?” George says, quiet, too serious for the surface of their relationship.

“Yeah,” Jordan acknowledges, gaze fixed on the floor as he pulls away, fiddling with his hair.

“You know Tom is always there,” George pushes.

Jordan looks up, this time letting George see his pleased smile. “I know,” he promises.

“Good,” George says. It looks like Tom’s speech had been good for something. “I’ll see you at the Sarries game then, if not before.”

“See you at the Sarries match.” Jordan pauses, then darts forward to hug George.

George has barely managed to rest a hand on Jordan’s back to return the embrace before Jordan is pulling away, hurrying out the door.

Jonny comes to stand at George’s side. “Sweet kid,” he comments.

“He is,” George agrees.

Jonny leans in, close to George’s ear. “Fancies you,” he murmurs.

“Jonny,” George scolds, glancing around the changing room only to find they’re alone, just Ben and Tom left in the opposite corner.

Jonny just laughs. “I’ll see you Wednesday mate,” he throws over his shoulder, leaving the room.

George takes a moment to survey the Welford Road dressing room, the noise of fans and players in the corridor filtering through the walls. He’s played here so many times, and this victory is one of the ones he most proud of. He just hopes Leicester can keep the momentum up over the break of true Premiership matches, the loss of their international players. It’s a challenge, but then the whole season has been a challenge. The boys are, at least, used to it by now. 

The new few weeks will be challenging for George too, time to re-establish the firm hold he used to have on the starting spot at fly half. There’s no Cipriani in the initial squad, so at least he’s off to a good start. Owen is there to challenge him, as always, but they’ve more than proved how well they work together by now. With Owen as co-captain George can’t see him losing a starting spot, and he wouldn’t want him to. It makes the task simple - remind Eddie of how many matches they’ve managed to win together for England, and remind him of why. Remind him why he’d trusted George in the first place after that mess of a World Cup, what had made him give George that chance in Australia, and what George had done to keep it. Owen isn’t going anywhere, so George needs to remind Eddie of the years of history the two of them share, how well they communicate both on and off the pitch, and just what an asset that is. 

If George can remind Eddie of all of that, if he can remind himself, then he’ll come back to Leicester satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! So nearly at camp now, yay! So nearly at where I've stalled out in writing, less yay! /o\
> 
> As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	29. Chapter 29

Owen has already left for the match by the time George makes it to his house - that had been in the plan for the day, George needing to sleep in after his late match, then having a final meal with his family before heading down south for a month. It’s still strange, to let himself into Owen’s with his own key, unpack into Owen’s home without the man himself teasing him for his neatness.

When George is done unpacking he heads downstairs, makes himself a cup of tea and settles onto the sofa, switching on the Saracens build up - and that’s not strange at all. He’s watched rugby matches, Saracens matches, on this sofa tens of times. Owen might not be beside him but this is still a space he knows, a space he’s comfortable in. A space that’s home, even if the man who usually makes it so isn’t there right now.

George holds his breath through the thunderous applause as the teams run out, through the overwhelming cheer as Owen nails his first kick, the camera showing pride flags waving in the crowd. Saracens are at home this week, the potential for disapproval from the crowd is lower - but it only takes one person to call out and ruin the game, and there’s nothing to say a Saracens’ fan couldn’t be that one, nothing to say they would need the excuse of disapproval. 

George hasn’t been so nervous for Owen since the last match of the season - the rugby community might be patting itself on the back for a strong reaction to the first fan to yell out slurs, but George is worried that it will have given others’ ideas. There’s no doubt in his mind that there are others, and Owen knows it too.

In the end the match passes peacefully, George managing to relax into the game after half time as Saracens dominate proceedings, the victory never in doubt. Their home fans never have an excuse to express disapproval, in any form. George doubts Saracens themselves will be as happy with the performance, but after the scrap against Glasgow he imagines the fans at least will simply be relieved to have found this match more straight forward.

George doesn’t have to wait long for Owen to get back, calling out when he opens the front door, “Honey, I’m home!”

George rolls his eyes at the greeting, shaking his head fondly as he stands to go to Owen - and then Owen is in front of him.

George takes a moment, just a split second, to take Owen in - he’s seen Owen so many times since they last met in person but now he’s _here_ , in front of George, George can see all of him and not just a blurry, ever moving shot of his head and shoulders.

Owen takes no such time, stepping forwards as George is regarding him, wrapping him up in a hug. George holds on just as tight, burying his head in the crook of Owen’s neck, shivering as Owen’s hands sweep over his back, pressing him close.

“Hi there love,” George murmurs into Owen’s skin.

“Hi,” Owen returns, easing back until they’re facing each other. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” George agrees, breaking out into a grin.

Owen leans in to kiss him, with terrible timing. George can’t stop smiling long enough to kiss back, but if the way it makes Owen grin back is any indication he can’t really mind.

“You’ve eaten?” George checks. He imagines Saracens would have fed them a post match meal, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure.

“Yeah,” Owen confirms. “You?”

George nods, rewarded by a tight squeeze from Owen before he pulls away.

“Come on,” Owen takes George by the hand to lead them both upstairs. “How’s your day been?”

“All the better for seeing you,” George teases, grinning at the fond laughter he causes.

“Good,” Owen pronounces, turning for another kiss as soon as they reach the top of the stairs. 

George sinks into this one as he hadn’t been able to the last, revelling in the feeling of Owen’s hands on his body, his lips on George’s, the solidity of him pressed close. Owen goes with the deepening kiss easily, opening his mouth below George’s at the lightest prompting. George can’t help the little sound of contentment that escapes him as Owen slips a hand under the hem of his t shirt, drawing warm circles with his thumb on the bare skin of George’s hip. In return George trails a hand up from Owen’s waist to his shoulders, up further to cup the back of his head, skimming over short hair. He drops his other hand to Owen’s arse, just to rest, just because he can, as the kiss begins to soften.

Here, now, they can do whatever they like, touch however they like. Here George can lay on Owen as they watch TV, press a kiss to his lips, his head, anywhere, whenever he feels the urge. They have that for a few short days before they’re in camp, reduced to stealing away brief hours at a time. Camp will be better than earlier in the season, George reminds himself - seeing Owen only a few times times in three months had been tougher than he thinks either of them had anticipated, though George is equally sure that maintaining their relationship was worth every painful second - but they still won’t be free of restrictions, not in Portugal nor at Pennyhill. 

They’ll be able to sit touching, but not wrapped together the way George would prefer. They’ll be able to talk, but only within the boundaries of what they’re comfortable with their teammates hearing. Maybe that says more about them, about the co-dependence and importance of touch in their relationship, than it does about the boundaries at Pennyhill, but they’re still limits, something George is eager to enjoy time without.

“How was your day?” George asks on pulling away. He hadn’t meant to delay them quite so long, is as happy as Owen to head to bed and lay down together. Owen must be tired after the match, the long day, and while it was a victory it wasn’t the type of performance to grant an adrenaline rush.

Owen hums thoughtfully. “We won,” he settles on as they move into the bedroom.

George rolls his eyes. “I saw that. Good match? Secure win?” he offers Owen positives.

“Secure win, at least,” Owen agrees wryly. “And I think we’ll take that.”

“Bit calmer than last week.”

“And thank fuck for that,” Owen agrees. “Though, like -” Owen releases George’s hand to drop onto his bed, scooting to the side to create space that George readily takes. “The fans wouldn’t stop talking about what happened,” Owen admits, settling onto his back.

George curls their fingers together, rolls over to lean on Owen’s side, pressing them close. “Yeah?” he prompts, as Owen exhales tiredly.

“Just - everyone wanting to say how appalling it was, that I shouldn’t have to hear it -”

George snorts out a laugh at that, can’t help it.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees wryly, raising their joined hands to press a kiss to the back of George’s hand. “As if I haven’t heard it enough without them, what with it being headline news all bloody week!”

George hums agreement, presses a kiss to Owen’s shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.

“Can’t wait for Portugal,” Owen goes on, squeezing George’s hand. “No one stopping me in the street to chat about homophobia every five seconds.”

George hums, thoughtful this time. “You don’t think your England teammates will have something to say?” he asks, pushing the hem of Owen’s shirt up.

“I - Georgie, we’re in the middle of a conversation,” Owen laughs, co-operating as George pulls his shirt over his head.

“I know,” George acknowledges. “Carry on - I just wanted to touch.” And now he can, can lay his cheek on Owen’s chest, wrap an arm around his waist, revel in the warm skin that’s all his.

“Yeah,” Owen’s voice softens. “You too, come on,” he pulls at the shoulder of George’s t shirt.

George moves as little as he can to strip his shirt, lying back down half on top of Owen, the two of them chest to chest. “Good call,” he says, eyes drifting shut at the warmth, the comfort. “You were saying about our teammates?”

“Yeah,” Owen clears his throat, shifts his focus from the hands skating over George’s back.

George smiles, hidden in Owen’s chest.

“You’re right,” Owen sighs. “But I guess - I should only have to talk about it the once each, if I’m lucky.” A hand settles on the small of George’s back, the fingers of the other still trailing along his spine. “A good half of the lads have messaged me anyway, hopefully that’ll be enough for them.”

“Hopefully,” George agrees. He doesn’t want to spend half of England camp discussing homophobia any more than Owen does.

They lie in silence for a moment, George drifting absent fingers across Owen’s collarbone.

“I’m so tired,” Owen sighs.

“It’s been a long week,” George replies, understanding. A long week isn’t the half of it - Owen’s had so much to deal with, meetings with Saracens’ PR for an update nearly every day, phone meetings with Eddie besides, and the indignation of his teammates to deal with as well. “And it’s cold,” George adds, shivering. Owen may be warm beneath him but the air surrounding them is not, and George is starting to get chilled. “Let’s get under the covers,” he says, making no move to do so, unwilling to separate from Owen.

“You don’t have to ask,” Owen’s voice is amused. “You’re welcome in my bed any time.”

“I’m already in your bed,” George points out. “I know.”

George takes a second to savour the warmth of Owen under him, the comfort of his touch. “Come on,” he insists, pushing to standing. “Let’s get in, get warm.”

Owen’s arms reach for George for a moment before falling to his waistband, arching up to push trousers and underwear off together before kicking them off the bed. George stops, distracted by the view.

“Is this what you want?” Owen asks, raising an eyebrow at George as he stands to push the covers back.

George reaches out to trail fingertips up Owen’s thigh, fit a palm to his hip. “Always,” he says, hushed, against Owen’s lips.

They kiss, slow and languid, George resting his second hand just below the curve of Owen’s arse. Eventually George shivers again, parts them with a quick slap to the back of Owen’s thigh. “Under the duvet, it’s cold out here,” he insists.

“I’ll get you for that,” Owen laughs, surprised - but he does as George asks, slipping back into bed with his eyes intent on George as he follows Owen’s lead in stripping completely.

George hurries to join Owen, pulling the shield of the covers over the two of them. “Worth it,” he decrees, pressing a brief kiss to Owen’s lips.

Owen chases his lips, kisses George steadily, for long enough that he’s more than forgotten the topic of conversation when they finally part.

All George knows is Owen, the familiar expanse of him under George’s palms, the welcoming warmth of his body. All he feels is Owen, the press of his calf between George’s, entangling their legs, the solidity of his body as he draws them together. All he wants is Owen, close and smiling like this, with no pressing end in sight.

~

It takes until 11am the next day for George and Owen to drag themselves out of the warmth of bed, George pulling Owen out bodily when his stomach has rumbled one too many times. It wouldn’t do for them to turn up to England camp undernourished, George scolds Owen as they pull on clothes and tumble downstairs.

“Looking after me,” Owen singsongs, as they enter the kitchen, the room bathed in the last of the morning sunlight.

George turns, hands on his hips. “D’you want me to make you breakfast or not?” he arches an eyebrow.

“Yes please Georgie,” Owen blinks wide eyes at him.

George snorts, shaking his head, giving in to a grin.

Owen beams back, pulls George in for a brief hard kiss. “Looking after me,” he murmurs into George’s ear before he lets him go, teasing in his tone replaced by warmth.

“You deserve it,” George tells him, darting in for another quick kiss before heading to the fridge.

Owen catches him by the hand, pulling him back, but George resists.

“Oi, we’ve got to eat.” George doesn’t bother to feign irritation, smiling up at Owen when he’s pulled into his chest.

George has _missed_ this, simple touch and laugher. He’s missed _Owen_. He’s seen him nearly every day, and that’s been wonderful, but now he’s in Owen’s kitchen again, now he’s back in his arms, he realises just how much they’ve still missed.

“Just -” Owen pulls George closer still, captures his mouth. 

George puts up all the resistance he feels, which is to say none, sinking into Owen’s embrace. He twines his fingers together behind Owen’s neck, uses that hold as leverage to pull himself up when Owen starts to pull away.

George couldn’t say how long they stand there, kissing, but it’s long enough for Owen’s stomach to rumble yet again, breaking the two of them apart into laughter.

“Not doing too great a job of looking after you, huh?” George jokes, squeezing Owen’s waist before finally separating the two of them to get started on the meal.

“I don’t know, you do alright,” Owen answers absently. ”I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

When George looks back at Owen he’s rummaging in the saucepan cupboard, his back to George. George smiles at him anyway, before pulling bacon from the fridge.

~

Owen cooks on Monday, barbecue George has been missing since his time at the Farrells over the summer. He has his own barbecue, of course - he is a rugby player after all - but he lacks the patience for the slow cooked feasts Owen tends to. They demolish the food in no time at all, speculating about their opposition line ups for the upcoming months as they do so. It’s the first time they’ve talked about rugby since Saturday after silent mutual agreement to skip Sunday’s matches - George isn’t sure whether that fact or the fact that he’d noticed is more remarkable.

“What matches are your family coming to?” Owen asks as he fills the dishwasher.

“New Zealand,” George tells him, finishing off wiping down the sides.

Owen levels him a flat look.

“What?” George laughs. “You asked!”

“Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer,” Owen acknowledges, coming to wrap his arms around George from behind. “I guess they’re coming to Japan, too.”

“We haven’t really talked about it,” George admits. “You know they normally come to most, I just pass on the tickets and see who turns up. Dad’s coaching Germany, so he might have to miss some games for that, think Japan’d be one of them. And -” George thinks. “Japan’s the week the Prem comes back proper, right? I think there’s a Leicester match the Friday night, Joe might not make it either.”

Owen huffs, amused, his breath tickling George’s neck. “Your dad I get, but surely Joe wouldn’t let that keep him from your 50th cap match?”

“My - oh, yeah.”

“You forgot?” Owen tucks his face into the side of George’s neck, laughing. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

George pulls a face. “I just didn’t think of it!” he protests. “Besides, it might not be.”

“Sure Georgie,” Owen scoffs.

George frowns, glad Owen is still behind him and can’t see his expression. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the faith in him, it’s just - the last England match he’d been in the squad for he’d been the water carrier. And that’s fine, he’s happy to be the water carrier if that’s the best he can serve the team, and judging by the squad Eddie didn’t think that experiment had worked out anyway, but - 

George’s last role for England had been water carrier. Back in June he hadn’t even been good enough to make the bench. He can’t assume that he’ll have automatically returned to more than that, despite how well he thinks he’s been playing. He can’t do that and then be disappointed, he can’t. As much as he hopes he’s back on track, he can’t just assume the way Owen is.

“Well, if it is I’m sure Joe’ll make it down,” George says rather than voice any of that.

Owen hums, kissing George on the cheek. “Our Japan match clashes with Ireland-New Zealand,” he says regretfully. “Mum’s sad she won’t make it, my sisters’ too. Gabe doesn’t have an opinion,” he adds.

George shakes his head, laughing gently, leaning back into Owen’s hold. “It’s fine,” he tells him. “I wouldn’t expect them to come down.”

“You don’t seem to expect your own family to come,” Owen scoffs. “They wanted to,” he adds, voice softer.

“I - yeah, I’d’ve liked them to,” George says. He hadn’t thought about it but it would have been nice, his and Owen’s family both there for a moment like that. “Maybe they can sit by my family at the New Zealand game?” 

“They’d like that,” Owen smiles wide enough that George can hear it in his voice.

George turns in Owen’s hold. “D’you know what I’d like?” he asks, doesn’t give Owen a chance to reply before he’s leaning in for a kiss.

~

“Yeah, no,” Owen says, short, only a few moments into the phone call that had interrupted his and George’s last lazy morning. 

“No,” Owen reiterates, leaning forwards from his previous slouch into the sofa cushions. “I told you I don’t - I’ll be in Portugal, anyway.”

George cocks his head - who’s trying to get Owen to do something in the next week? It’s pretty obviously a busy time for him. 

“No,” Owen repeats, when that doesn’t seem to win him the argument. “I don’t want to be involved - not in person, not over a video call, not on the phone, not at all. I’m not going to give a statement.”

A statement - about what happened at Glasgow?

Whatever the context this seems to get through, Owen losing some of the tension that had crept into his body through his repeated denials, leaning back once more.

“Yeah,” he says, more agreeable if still terse. “Okay, thanks.” Owen heaves a sigh. “Yeah, I’ll let you know if I change my mind. Thanks. Alright, bye,” he hangs up, chucking his phone onto the coffee table in front of them and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fucking hell.”

“That about Glasgow?” George asks, unable to think of anything else that would get under Owen’s skin so quickly.

“Yeah,” Owen groans, dropping his hand back to where George’s feet rest in his lap. “Letting me know the prick’s gonna be charged today.”

George hums acknowledgement, wriggling his toes. “Least he’s been charged before camp, before the Internationals start. The news won’t be breaking while we’re there.”

“Yeah,” Owen shifts to face George, pulling a leg up underneath him and bringing George’s feet to rest on his other thigh. “Not sure that’ll stop me getting asked about it.”

“No,” George acknowledges, hooking his feet over Owen’s thigh and leaning forwards over his legs to bring them closer. “But it’ll be better - and England’ll stop them if you want, you know that.”

Owen nods.

“How long until it goes to court?” George asks. If they wanted a statement from Owen next week - 

“A month? A couple of months?” Owen shrugs. “They’ll let me know when they know.”

George frowns, “Helpful.” 

“You’re telling me,” Owen sighs. “But they wanted me to go record some ‘victim impact statement’ basically as soon as possible, so I guess they think it could be soon.”

George feels his frown deepen, expression gentling when Owen rubs a thumb at his ankle. “Don’t they know you’re a bit busy?” he shakes his head. George flicks his eyes over Owen’s face - he still seems tense. “You’re not going to give them one?”

“I - no, I don’t think so,” Owen says, ducking his head.

“Okay,” George accepts easily, rubbing at Owen’s knee.

“I don’t - they really want me too, I think,” Owen glances up briefly. “But I don’t -”

“It’d be a lot to talk about, a lot to give,” George provides, when words seem to fail Owen. “And it’s not just telling the courts, it’d be in the media in a heartbeat. It’s not like they need it to build a case, anyway,” he adds. “There’s no way he can plead anything but guilty”

“Yeah? That’s what I thought,” Owen sighs heavily, slumping sideways into the sofa cushions. “Ugh, I don’t want to talk about this - in the press or here, not now,” he tries a smile. “This is our last full day together - I don’t want to talk about him. I want to hold onto what makes me happy, not dwell on the one guy trying to tear it down.”

A soft smile breaks across George’s face, and when he reaches to take Owen’s hand they meet halfway. “Yeah, Owen,” he agrees. “Let’s keep a hold on what makes us happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally made it - sorry for the wait and thank you for your patience!! I decided to add in most of these scenes in editing so it was a bit more work than normal, and also working under a manager I already knew to be incompetent has turned out even worse than I anticipated (: But the next few chapters just need editing, so we should be back into regular update territory now! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments! 
> 
> Also I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year, with this fic! I'll be updating my progress daily on twitter, and if anyone wants to do sprints at any point in the month please do send me a message wherever suits you best - accountability and group sprints are 100% the only way I'll actually win this.


	30. Chapter 30

“Today’s the day,” Owen crows directly into George’s ear.

“Fuck off,” George bats at Owen, blinking his eyes open to find Owen grinning down at him, standing at the side of the bed. 

“Aw, Georgie, aren’t you excited to get back in camp?” 

George glares at Owen, which only serves to widen his grin. “I was excited to be sleeping. Last lie in before early morning buffet breakfasts, that’s what I was excited for.”

“That was yesterday,” Owen tells him with no remorse. “We’ve got to be at Pennyhill for noon, no time for a lie in today.”

“Just because you left all your packing to this morning,” George grumbles. “Some of us finished last night, I can still sleep,” George pulls the duvet up over his head.

“But I made you coffee!”

George groans. Owen’s coffee is good, and this might be the last time he can have it for a while.

The bed dips as Owen sits next to him. “Coffee,” he coaxes, resting a hand on George’s shoulder through the duvet and leaning down to speak into his ear again.

“Ugh,” George huffs, but pulls the duvet down and shuffles up the bed until he’s sitting back against the headboard. “That’s a better wake up,” he tells Owen.

“Yeah?” Owen smiles at him. “How about this?” he asks, leaning in for a soft kiss. He cups George’s face in his hands, running a thumb along his jawline before slipping his one hand down to George’s shoulder, trailing fingertips down the side of his neck. George shivers, feeling the touch down to his toes.

“Better again,” George tells him, pulling Owen back in.

“Good morning,” Owen says gently when George lets him go.

“Morning,” George grins, leaning their foreheads together.

“Keep me company while I pack?”

“Do I have to get out of bed?” George asks suspiciously.

“Is that the deal breaker?” Owen laughs. 

George pouts, deliberately dramatic. “I like your bed,” he says. “I’ll miss it.”

Owen’s smile softens, and he leans in for another kiss. “I’ll bring my suitcase in here.”

George settles himself back in the pillows as Owen leaves the room, reaching for the coffee Owen has left him on the bedside table while he waits. Owen’s back in only a few moments, bringing his suitcase and his kitbag from Bristol camp through from the spare room, opening it to reveal a stash of kit.

George laughs. “You didn’t unpack that?”

“They washed everything before we left, it’s all clean and folded - didn’t see the point.” 

George shakes his head.

Owen transfers everything from his kitbag to his suitcase in under a minute. “See?” he looks up at George. “Way more efficient than unpacking and repacking properly.”

“I guess,” George concedes. “You know what would have been more efficient?” he asks as Owen goes to his wardrobe for non-kit clothes. “If you’d packed with me last night and got a lie in this morning. Camp’d come quicker if we were still asleep.”

“Eh,” is all Owen says, putting back one pair of trainers to bring out another. “Three pairs of trainers sound reasonable?” he asks George.

George rolls his eyes. “You’ll spend 90% of time in boots, but sure,” he says. “Ashy’ll have more however many you take.” George takes a long sip of coffee as Owen packs his trainers in. “What’s this ‘eh’?” he asks. “Anyone’d think you’re not excited to get into camp?”

“Eh,” Owen repeats, huffing a laugh. “Nah, it’ll be great, just - been happy here the last couple of days. And I’ve gotta be in charge in camp, you know?”

George’s brow creases in concern, but he keeps up their teasing tone. “You love being in charge, you’ve been yelling at the lot of them without the title for years now.”

“Right,” Owen acknowledges. “I mean, I can’t argue with that.”

“But…?”

Owen turns to George. “It’ll be good,” he says firmly. “It was good in South Africa, it’ll be good here, it’s just - having the captaincy proper, not just being one of the leaders, it’s - it’s different.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, thinking back to the extra work Owen had put in in South Africa, hidden away in their room or meetings with Eddie. “You did a great job out there, y’know? With the new lads, all of us - you did great.”

“Thanks,” Owen smiles at George. “I know there’s the rest of you keeping an eye out, and obviously I’m sharing it all with Dylan too, it’s just - it’s an honour, to be England captain. It’s - I’ve obviously dreamed of it, I’ve worked to get here, but - it’s a responsibility too.”

George just nods, unable to add anything to that.

Owen stands, leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of George’s head before retrieving his toiletries from the bathroom.

“It’ll be good to see Elliot again,” George says when Owen gets back. 

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, a grin breaking over his face. “Jinx has been talking about it all week - you know Sarries are trying to get Elliot down with us, too?”

“No,” George’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah!”

“When you say Sarries do you mean Jamie?” George checks.

“Him too, but no, the real deal,” Owen laughs. “It’s all still in early talk stages -”

“I won’t say anything,” George agrees. He watches Owen pack for a moment. “Good to have Danny back in the squad, too.”

“We’ll need him to pick up the jokes with Marler gone,” Owen acknowledges, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I’m looking forward to working with Dylan again, and Eddie,” he gives after a moment.

“Yeah?”

Owen nods, attention on rearranging things in his suitcase. “I like how Dylan thinks things through, and Eddie - he’s always fun,” Owen glances up to George, shooting him a mischievous grin.

He’s far, far too attractive when he does that.

George sets his mug on the bedside table, the sound recapturing Owen’s attention, and slips to the floor next to Owen.

“Alright?” Owen begins to ask, but George cuts the question off with his mouth before Owen can finish the second syllable.

He kisses Owen, hard, because he wants to, because he can. Because his boyfriend is beautiful, because he’s happy, and because in this space they can acknowledge and express that however they like. It just so happens that one of George’s favourite ways to express that is by kissing Owen, who certainly doesn’t seem to mind. Owen gives as good as he gets, taking a tight hold of George’s shoulders and keeping George close when he pulls away. 

“I’m looking forward to working with you too, you know,” Owen breathes into the space between them.

“Hmm, someone’s angling for more,” George says lightly, leaning in to press another quick kiss to Owen’s lips. 

Owen shoots him a wounded look. “Seriously,” he presses.

“Yeah,” George softens. “Me too. I like working with you.”

“I like playing with you, it’s - I don’t know,” Owen shrugs, awkward. 

“Familiar,” George provides.

“No,” Owen shakes his head. “Or, yeah, I guess, but it’s not just that. I like - all of it. Being on the pitch with you, and being in camp, meetings, training - all of it.”

George smiles at Owen, soft. “I like spending time with you too, Owen.”

Owen leans in, connects their lips slow and soft. 

A whole month of time with his favourite person, in England camp, one of his favourite environments. How did they get so lucky?

~

When they arrive in Portugal it’s to heavy rain, hardly the sunshine break some of the lads had been fantasising about on the flight over. George had spent his flight over fantasising about getting to share a villa with Owen, so he hopes that’s not a bad sign. The facility is one they’ve used before, one George has visited goodness knows how many times since juniors, even the journey from the airport to the site familiar. 

There are new faces for this trip, as there always are, but it’s been a long time since George has looked around an England camp and felt lacking in people to talk to. There are people he’s friendlier with, lads he gravitates towards - Owen not least amongst them - but very few people he’d have nothing to say to. However the villas are split - if George remembers rightly there are some of four and some of six, with bedrooms largely shared between two - George isn’t worried about feeling comfortable. There’s no way of knowing what strategy Eddie might be using to split the villas this time, so George does his best to put it out of his mind, does his best not to hope.

Still, George has his favourites, smiles to find himself in step with Owen, Maro and Elliot on the brief trip from the coach to the meeting room where they will be handed their keys. Jamie is a step ahead, bickering with Ben as Jonny does his best to mediate - somehow George doesn’t have total confidence in the success of that.

“I feel like we should do something abut that,” Elliot sighs, nodding forwards to the very bickering George was just considering.

“Eh, they’re still smiling,” George shrugs.

“If anything that’s a role for our co-captain, huh,” Maro nudges Owen, who takes the opportunity to stumble into George.

George rolls his eyes, righting Owen with a hand just too tight around his arm.

“Like George said, they’re still smiling,” Owen deflects, beaming sunnily at Maro in turn.

“Neglectful of your duties, captain!” Elliot tuts, shaking his head. “What if Jamie needs back up?”

“I’m pretty sure you’d step up.”

“What if _Ben_ needs back up?” Maro presses.

“Have you ever seen Ben lose an argument?” Owen raises an eyebrow.

“What if Jonny needs back up?” George takes his turn.

“I think he’s your responsibility, isn’t he Georgie?” Owen tilts his head. “I thought you said Tom had formally fobbed him off on you - wouldn’t like to get in the way of a well developed system like that. We need multiple leaders in the team, not just one or two guys bossing everyone around,” Owen finishes, that sunny smile back in place.

George scowls but can hardly protest.

“Did your captain really put you in charge of Jonny?” Maro asks, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Told me he was my problem, at least,” George sighs. “Said I should know how to deal with him since I lived with him for three weeks, and he’s already got his hands full dealing with Ben. Couldn’t argue to be fair - keeping both of them in check is far too big a job for one person.”

The others laugh at that as they step into reception, George smiling too innocently as they attract the focus of the very men they’d just been talking about.

They settle down as everyone files neatly into a meeting room already populated by England staffers, following Eddie’s lead. 

“Alright lads,” Eddie picks up a clipboard. “I’m going to announce villas and then I want you out of my sight until dinner at 6pm, alright? Take the time to get settled in, unpack, catch with your housemates, I don’t care - I’ve heard enough of the lot of you for now!

“When your villa is called could one member come up and collect the villa’s information pack - it’s got everyone’s keys, a schedule of what we’re aiming to get done out, and a map of the site. For goodness’ sake try not to get lost and pester the other guests, and help out your teammates if they look like they need it. I’m sure some of you will.”

That sparks a round of calls from the crowd, those most likely to get lost named and shamed, before Eddie can begin his own list of names.

First is Dylan’s villa - no Owen, George notes, trying not to hope. Owen taps their feet together - obviously not exercising the same restrain.

George looks firmly forwards as Eddie runs through three more villas - all the new boys together. George hopes at least one of them is any good at reading a map and they won’t have to go hunting for them come dinner time. 

And then -

“Owen Farrell -”

Please, please -

“- George Ford -”

George leans into Owen and meets him halfway, just managing to keep his balance as he rebounds off the unexpected return force. 

“- Jonny May, and Ben Youngs,” Eddie finishes off.

And that doesn’t do anything to diminish George’s happiness, not one jot. 

“Go on,” George encourages Owen, tapping him on the back to nominate him to collect their information pack.

As Owen walks away George heads out the door, tries to contain a smile. His best friends and his partner - sure, Ben and Jonny can be a handful, but George wouldn’t’ve picked anyone else. 

Elliot, Maro, and George Kruis are waiting outside when George, Ben, and Jonny make it out of reception, presumably waiting for Jamie to collect their key.

“You looking after the two of them then?” Elliot asks George, nodding to Ben and Jonny.

“And I’ve not been left alone to do it,” George grins. 

Owen walks out of reception at the next moment, in step with Jamie.

Elliot and Maro crack up.

“Eddie knew!” Elliot says. “He knew they were too much for one man.”

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Maro agrees.

Ben frowns at them thoughtfully. “Jonny,” he says. “I feel like we’re being laughed at.”

“Alright,” George claps his hands, steps forwards to take the information pack from Owen before he too can join in the banter. “Where’re we going?”

He starts walking in the direction of the majority of the villas before finding a key, figuring avoiding a scene is worth the risk.

“Managing them well already!” Elliot calls.

George raises his middle finger without turning round, relieved when he finds he is walking in the right direction.

It only takes a moment for Owen to fall in step with him, letting their shoulders brush.

“Alright there housemate?” he asks, voice low, intimate.

“Yeah,” George slides a glance at Owen, lets himself smirk. “I’m alright.”

An arm lands heavy over George’s shoulder, Ben between them in the next second. “Lads! Look at this! The four of us - Jonny!” Ben calls, throwing his head back. “Jonny, get in here, we’re having a moment.”

Jonny arrives on George’s other side, wraps an arm around his waist. “I’m here, Lenny,” he tells him.

“The four of us!” Ben announces, gleeful. “We’ve got the dream team here lads, make no mistake.”

~

It doesn’t take the dream team long to fall apart.

“Bagsy the room with George,” Owen says, hurried, the instant they step across the threshold of the villa.

George doesn’t look at Owen, wouldn’t trust his smile. 

“No!” Ben cries, dismayed, stopping dead in the hallway. “I wanted him!”

“You’d leave me with Lenny?” Jonny turns to George, wide eyed.

George holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not taking the blame for being the most desirable roommate of the three of us!”

Owen swarms up behind George, drops heavy hands to his hips. “Oh, you’re very desirable Georgie,” he says into George’s ear, voice perfectly loud enough to be heard by Ben and Jonny both.

“Piss off,” George grumbles, stepping forwards out of Owen’s hold and swatting at his arms. He scowls to hold back a smile, wishes there was such a simple solution to holding back his blush.

Ben squints at the two of them. “You’re not going to distract me with your fooling around; me and Jonny get first pick of rooms!” he insists.

George shrugs a shoulder. “Sure.” He knows these villas well enough to know that there’s no meaningful difference, and so does Ben, but hopefully it’ll make him feel better.

“Jonny! Come help me choose.”

Jonny sighs, long suffering, but follows Ben into one of the bedrooms obediently. 

George takes the opportunity to go through to the open living and kitchen space and collect his suitcase, Owen following in his wake. They’ve got two sofas, he notes, wonders if that’ll make them a base for visitors - he’s sure he remembers some of the villas only having one. He glances quickly around the basic kitchenette where there’s another door to the outside, dining table and chairs - it’s all exactly the same as he remembers, familiar enough that George wonders if he hasn’t stayed in this exact villa before.

“This is ours,” Ben declares, poking his head out of one of the bedroom doorways, Jonny lingering in the corridor behind him. “It’s got better sun in the evening, and _three_ bedside tables. It’s nicer.”

“Okay,” George says, agreeable, just about managing not to laugh at the sceptical look Jonny is giving Ben’s back.

Owen isn’t so successful, though he masks it in coughing. George steps through to look at the room, forcing Ben to move and break his narrow eyed glare. A quick glance finds Ben’s telling the truth - there’s a bedside table either side of the beds, and one between them as well. “Luxury,” he nods solemnly. 

Ben hasn’t been deterred by their movement, still watching Owen. “You think you’ve won this round, Faz -”

“- I mean, yeah,” Owen agrees. 

George shakes his head. It’s like Owen doesn’t know not to antagonise him.

“We’ll see about that,” Ben promises, turning his back on them with a flourish.

George doesn’t bother replying, leaving the room and clapping Jonny on the shoulder before stepping into the other bedroom, the one he and Owen will be sharing for the next week. 

A grin splits George’s face as he takes in the room, the few scant centimetres separating the two large single beds. It’s nothing compared to the bedside table that had split Ben and Jonny’s beds, nothing George and Owen haven’t overcome before. Ben might have been the one to decide the rooms but George couldn’t be more happy with his choice.

George turns to look at Owen, finds him checking the door - checking the lock. It works. 

Owen looks at him and their eyes catch. He smiles, promising.

George fights back a shiver - they’re not fucking in a shared England villa. He levels Owen with a stern look, on the verge of saying so, when Jonny cries out in anger from the room across the hall, every word audible as he lays into Ben about fair division of space.

George makes his way more fully into the room to drop his bag on the closest bed. They should unpack.

Owen hesitates by the door, looking it over.

“Owen,” George says quietly. They make eye contact, and George shakes his head. What reason could they possibly give for shutting the door to unpack, let alone locking it? They’ll talk about this, yes, but that - and anything else - will have to wait.

Owen sighs, but there was a reason he hadn’t done it himself already. He steps forwards, brushing past George on his way to chucking his kit onto the furthest bed with another wicked smile at George, and starts to unpack.

Jonny’s calmed down now - and George would like to hope it’ll be the first and last fight of the camp, but he knows better. Conversation from the opposite room now only flows through as a murmur, words indistinguishable. 

Still, George keeps his voice low when he asks - “Desirable, Owen?” 

Owen shrugs, unrepentant. “You are,” is all he says.

“You do remember Ben knows we dated before, yeah? We’re only sharing this villa for a week - do try not to out us to my two closest friends while we’re here, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally made it to camp! I was starting to think it would never happen - I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to add some chapters to the 75 chapter estimate at this point, we've got a lot more to get through! Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	31. Chapter 31

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur, George unreasonably tired by the travel given that their flight hadn’t even been three hours, and they haven’t even changed timezone. Ben sets up his PS4 in the lounge and they play a couple of rounds of FIFA - George can already see his prediction that their villa will become a sort of home base being fulfilled. Owen hadn’t yet invited Jamie around for a match but he’d made noises about it, and George couldn’t blame him. It can’t be great for Owen, the sole Saracen in a den of Tigers. It’s perfect for George, he still can’t quite believe his luck - but he can’t imagine Owen is quite so happy.

It feels like no time at all before they can escape to bed and George is closing the door behind him and Owen. He hesitates before locking it, his hand slow to keep the catch of the bolt quiet. George doesn’t really want Ben and Jonny asking questions about their decision to lock the door, but at least for this first night he thinks it’s necessary.

When George turns to Owen he’s sat on the side of the bed, reaches out an arm. “C’mere,” Owen invites.

George goes.

He goes straight to Owen’s lap, not next to him like he thinks Owen had imagined, not that Owen protests. Quite the opposite, his arms twine around Goerge’s back and hold him close, letting George relax his weight into the hold without having to worry about falling back. “Hi,” George says, grinning.

“Hi there, Georgie,” Owen grins right back, his eyes dropping to George’s lips. “You comfy? Had a good day?”

“Yeah,” George confirms. “Think things have turned out pretty well, actually. You?”

“Yeah, it’s been alright,” Owen shrugs a shoulder, casual. 

George would see right through that even if Owen weren’t tracing lines up and down his back, showing just how happy he is to have his hands on George, to get to keep his hands on hm.

George leans in to kiss Owen, sliding their lips together slow and soft. Owen’s lips part underneath his and George takes the invitation, licking into Owen’s mouth warm and deep. They’ve shared a last kiss already today - barely 14 hours ago, and doesn’t it feel like a lifetime? - holding each other tight before a week’s worth of separation. And now they’re together, sharing not only a villa but a room, a room with a door that locks. 

George holds Owen tight, shifts closer, kissing him determinedly. How do they keep getting so _lucky_?

Owen yields to George’s mouth, eager and giving, pushing his hands up under George’s shirt. George tightens his grip on Owen’s shoulders, pulling himself closer again until he feels Owen’s balance start to waver.

“George,” Owen warns, pulling away.

George shifts his grip to push Owen away, urging him onto his back across the bed. He’d meant to kiss Owen briefly, express his happiness at their good fortune, then stop so they could have a conversation about what they can get away with while Ben and Jonny are just across the hall. But now he’s kissing Owen, and he can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop, not with Owen warm beneath him, everything George had thought he was going to have to miss, his for another week yet.

Owen goes with the move easily, digging eager fingers into George’s back, drawing him closer. But he softens the kiss and doesn’t urge George’s shirt up like he could. He has the same idea as George, then - they can’t go too far. George allows Owen to bring the kiss to a gentle end, nuzzling into his jaw when Owen brings his lips from George’s own to his cheek to finally draw them apart. He then trails his lips down to George’s neck, as if he can’t help himself, nipping at the edge of his collarbone.

George rolls out of Owen’s arms at the sting, before he can get drawn into the sensation. “That’s definitely not going to be allowed,” he tells Owen, amused.

Owen huffs. “What is then?” he asks George, turning onto his side to face him. “Sex is off the table, yeah?”

“Yeah,” George agrees. He looks at Owen, so close and warm. He doesn’t want to move away. “Right,” George says determinedly, pushing himself to standing. “Let’s get ready for bed, then we’ll talk about it.”

Owen looks up at George, forlorn.

“I’m not going to want to get up again, and neither are you,” George points out practically.

Owen pouts but can’t argue.

They go through the motions swiftly, with an ease born of familiarity, ready for bed in five minutes flat. Owen settles into bed first, George flipping off the overhead light to leave the room lit only by the warm yellow light that trickles around the edges of their curtains. He pauses before attempting to make it to his own bed in the darkness, grateful when Owen turns on his bedside lamp to illuminate the room. The light barely reaches the corners of the room but it’s enough for George to see by, enough to light Owen up as his eyes follow George.

Owen as George settles on his side on the very edge of the bed, a mirror of Owen’s own position. 

“Hi,” Owen says, reaching out a hand.

“Hi,” George echoes, taking it.

They lie there for a moment, getting warm beneath their separate sheets with only a few centimetres of empty space keeping them apart, their hands entwined on George’s pillow bridging that gap.

“It’s like juniors all over again,” Owen is the one to verbalise it.

He’s right. It’s different in some ways. They had lain like this, faces close, for serious discussions - but throughout the whole of their junior career George isn’t sure they’d ever held hands. One of those is clearly more intimate than the other, but try telling their junior selves that.

“It was a bad idea when we had sex in one of these villas in juniors, and it’s a bad idea now,” George raises an eyebrow.

Owen chokes on a laugh. “Fuck, it was, wasn’t it?” he agrees.

George shakes his head as Owen turns nostalgic. It had been - well, George hesitates to say fun. It had been intense, sneaking handjobs under the covers with the door locked while their teammates played video games in the villa next door, one ear always open for them coming back. They’d been reckless back then, desperate to make the most of any time they had together, never knowing when it would end. They don’t need to be now.

“Can we get away with locking the door?” Owen asks, reluctant, squeezing George’s hand. “I know it looks like we have something to hide, but -”

George squeezes right back. “I think we can, so long as we only do it overnight,” he tells Owen. He’s been thinking about it half the evening, which had probably contributed to just how quickly it had seemed to pass. “They might not notice, and if they do we can say we were worried Lenny was going to prank us, old habits from juniors - we can get away with it.”

“They know about you,” Owen reminds him. “They’re the only lads in the squad who know we’re both queer, and you were right about Ben, earlier - if anyone’s going to figure us out it’s him.”

George bites his lip. Owen is right, but - “They’ll figure it out a lot faster if they come in here and we’re wrapped up in each other like this, and - I don’t honestly think I can share a room with you for a week and never kiss you.”

Owen drops his eyes from George’s, his smile bashful.

“But we can try,” George adds - hiding their relationship is a joint decision, he doesn’t want to make a choice, take a risk, that Owen isn’t happy to.

“No, I don’t think I could either,” Owen agrees. “And it’s more than that, it’s sleeping - if neither of us rolls across the bed, any night, it’ll be a miracle.”

George nods agreement. They’d done that in juniors, gone to sleep on separate beds pressed together and ended up with one of them at least half on the other’s, despite being under separate sheets. There is a gap between these beds but George would be surprised if it keeps them apart.

“So we’re good with kissing, when the door’s locked?” George checks, waiting for Owen to nod. “But nothing more?”

Owen shakes his head. “We need to be able to answer the door, if they knock. That’s the limit, I think.” He pulls a face, “I can’t believe I’m going to have to jerk off in the shower again like a teenager.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Are you?” he asks.

“I am if you’re going to keep coming to bed shirtless,” Owen tells him.

George doesn’t bother to bite down on a grin. “It’s warm,” he blinks at Owen innocently.

“It’s raining.”

George laughs softly, turning his head to kiss Owen’s palm. “I didn’t do it to torture you,” he offers.

“I know,” Owen says, reaching out to trail gentle fingers up George’s arm and over his shoulder, down to nudge at the edge of his sheets.

George shivers.

“That’s why you did it,” Owen smiles, leaving his hand warm on the top of George’s back.

George shrugs. He likes Owen touching him, so sue him. Owen likes it too.

“So we have to be able to answer the door,” George gets them back on track. “And we should probably try to stay in separate beds?” he proposes. “Though this gap’s already annoying me.”

Owen pulls a face. “Yeah - and they are a decent size to share,” he muses. “But I think you’re right, it’d be asking for trouble.”

George nods. “Keep the curtains closed,” he adds, though he thinks it’s obvious.

Owen nods. “Bloody housekeeping’ll probably open them every morning, we’ll have to remember.”

George pulls a face. “Wish we could put up a do not disturb like we did in South Africa.”

“Can’t we?” Owen asks.

George would love to, doesn’t like the idea of other people coming in to his and Owen’s space, even if this one is only temporary. “Ask Ben and Jonny,” he shrugs.

Owen just grunts. “That everything?”

“I think so,” George agrees.

Owen smiles, then lifts their intertwined hands to kiss the back of George’s knuckles.

George smiles back, soft as Owen’s touch. “Can’t believe we got so lucky,” he breathes.

“I know,” Owen says. “Get you for a whole extra week,” he runs a hand down George’s side - he’d be pulling George bodily closer if that were possible without dragging him into in the gap between their beds, George is sure.

George stretches over the gap to kiss Owen again, that at least manageable. Owen reciprocates readily, letting out an approving groan as George sucks on his lower lip.

“Shh!” George pulls away to scold, half laughing.

Owen grumbles. “Don’t be so good then.”

“Can’t help it,” George grins at him, smug. “I just know what you like.”

“You do?” Owen arches an eyebrow. “Care to share?”

George hums, considering. He leans in, slow, close enough that he can feel the heat of Owen’s face, close enough that their noses brush, before he replies. “No, I don’t think so,” George says pleasantly, pulling back. “I think we should sleep. Long day, you know?”

Owen groans again, turning onto his back. “Tease,” he huffs, though he’s doing a terrible job hiding the way the corners of his mouth are curled up in amusement.

“No?” George checks. He’d understand if Owen didn’t want to be teased when they can’t actually do anything all week. 

Owen shakes his head, reluctant smile now spread over his face. “No.”

“So,” George frowns, wanting to clarify. “Good with teasing?”

Owen shrugs, loose. “You know I like it,” he says easily. “So long as we can still answer the door.”

George grins, then pushes himself up to lean over the gap between their beds and kiss Owen properly.

Owen laughs, low and amused, when George pulls away. “Mmm, we’re definitely going to end up in one bed.”

George hums agreement as Owen turns off his bedside light before taking George’s hand again, nestling back into his pillows.

“Goodnight, Georgie,” Owen bids, squeezing George’s hand.

George sighs, contented. “Night, love.”

~

“Good _morning_ ,” Ben greets joyously when George and Owen enter the kitchen the next morning.

Jonny, head down on the table, doesn’t seem quite so excited to see them. “Coffee,” he groans, almost unintelligible.

“Coming right up,” Ben promises, where the kettle is indeed boiling behind him. “Lads?” he offers, looking to George and Owen.

Owen shakes his head. “Instant coffee?” he sounds disgusted. “I can’t believe you would threaten me with such a thing,” he sighs heavily, taking a seat next to Jonny. 

“I’ll wait ‘til breakfast, but thanks,” George tells Ben. He wouldn’t call himself a coffee snob like Owen and some of the other lads, but he knows Ben and Jonny couldn’t care less what their coffee tastes like as long as it’s well caffeinated and he’s not at the level either.

“Y’alright mate?” Owen asks Jonny.

“Coffee,” is all Jonny repeats.

George laughs, taking the seat on Jonny’s other side so he can ruffle his hair. “Tired?”

“You know he talks in his sleep,” Jonny grumbles, still into the table. “Kept me up half the night.”

“Coffee’s up!” Ben announces as the kettle boils. “You better not be insulting me, or you won’t get any.”

Jonny doesn’t dignify that with a response.

George muffles a laugh into his hand as he yawns.

“Did you not sleep well either?” Ben asks, sitting down and sliding a mug across the table to Jonny.

“No, I slept fine.”

“I’ve never shared with Faz,” Jonny says, having sat up to receive his coffee and appearing more alert just from inhaling the steam. “He got any bad habits?”

George thinks. Owen has stolen the covers a couple of times, but that’s not exactly something he can share with the Ben and Jonny, and it doesn’t happen too often anyway. He’d done it more in the summer, weirdly, pulling the sheets off the both of them. “Nah, he’s alright.”

“You mean someone actually meets your neat standard?” Ben presses a hand to his chest in shock. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I said alright,” George points out wryly. “I didn’t say perfect.” He doesn’t mind picking up after Owen so much, anyway.

“Does he tidy up your stuff?” Jonny asks Owen, heaving a sigh. “I hated when he did that.”

“Then you should’ve kept your shit in your own room in _my house_ ,” George protests. “Not scattered over the entire downstairs!”

“You do it on tour too, Fordy, don’t lie.”

George just grumbles, unable to contradict Ben.

“Nah, I don’t mind it,” Owen says. George looks up to find him smiling. “Means I know where everything is, which is more than I would if it stayed where I’d left it.”

“I guess I can see that, if you know his system,” Ben nods thoughtfully. “Regular little housewife.”

George steals Ben’s coffee, more out of annoyance than because he wants some. “Charlotte clear up after you, does she?” he asks, only pretending to take a swig before putting the mug back on the table in front of him.

“No,” Ben admits. “We hired an actual cleaner, gave it up. So long as the place is clean neither of us are too bothered about whether it’s tidy.”

“Sophie’s neater than me,” Jonny contributes

“Mate, you’re not meant to back him when he comes out with sexist bullshit,” Owen advises Jonny, friendly.

“Everyone’s neater than you anyway Jon, that doesn’t prove anything,” George adds.

Ben squawks, George turning to find him glaring. “That’s my coffee!” he protests, swiping it from George’s hand with enough force that it spills on the table.

“Alright!” George throws his hands up. “Took you long enough to notice.”

Ben just scowls at George over the rim of the mug. “Aren’t you going to clean that up?”

George frowns back, resisting the urge.

“I’ll do it,” Owen says, circling the table to tap the back of George’s shoulder to his way to the sink.

“Thanks - Owen,” George says, barely catching the _love_ on the tip of his tongue.

Owen smiles at George like he knows what he’d wanted to say and George has to look away.

“Hey, I wanted to say,” George sits up straighter, waiting until both Ben and Jonny’s attention is on him. “Could you - I’m not going to mention my partner here, in camp,” he glances at Owen, who just smiles supportively. “I’m not - we know from Owen, England’s not safe, the lads gossip too much -” he forces a smile, keeping it light, Ben and Jonny returning the expression. “So I don’t want to mention my partner, don’t even want the lads to know I’m dating ideally.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, we won’t mention them either,” Ben nods easy agreement.

Jonny’s nodding too, but frowning. “What if Manu does?”

George shrugs. “I’ll try to change the subject?” he says. “I don’t -” he bites his lip, glancing at Owen again as he retakes his seat. “I don’t know, if it gets pushed I might copy Manu’s language, talk about my girlfriend. I don’t want to, but - fuck,” he curses, rubbing his temple. He doesn’t know, doesn’t want to deny Owen that way, especially not in front of him, doesn’t want to deny who he _is_ \- but the entire of Premiership rugby had known about Owen within two months of him coming out to the squad, and he _can’t_ have rumours spreading about himself like that. Trying to gauge which of his teammates has figured things out has weighed on his mind enough, widening that out to the entire Premiership is unthinkable. 

“Hey,” Owen stretches across the table to tap George’s hand where it’s clenching and unclenching from a fist. 

George looks up, finds Owen’s eyes wide, understanding.

“Whatever you need, Georgie,” Owen tells him seriously. “If Manu says something, if it gets pushed, if you just don’t feel comfortable - you say whatever you need to _get_ comfortable, to feel safe.”

“You know as well I do that comfortable not that simple,” George smiles wryly. He wants to take Owen’s hand, squeeze it in thanks, but a smile will have to do.

“No,” Owen concedes, face achingly open. “But safe - so long as you feel safe.”

“Yeah,” George sighs agreement, tearing his eyes from Owen’s compassionate expression.

“I mean, no one’s really asked at Leicester, right, and that’s been months?” Jonny points out sensibly, after glancing between George and Owen as if checking they’re done. “But we can the subject if Manu says anything, distract people, if that’s what you want. I just wanted to know what you want.”

“Yeah,” George rolls his shoulders, releases some of the tension there. He knows Jonny is right, just wishes it would stop his brain spiralling. “Yeah, that’d be - that’d be great.”

“Honestly Fordy, it’s not like it’ll be hard,” Ben says, leaning into the lightening of the tone. “You’re not that interesting, to be honest - can’t imagine the lads taking an interest.”

“Thanks, Lenny,” George laughs.

Funnily enough it does help - the lads have no way of suspecting that he’s queer, nothing to go off. Why _would_ they be particularly interested, even if Manu does mention his ‘girlfriend’? It’s not enough to stop his brain cycling, not altogether - he doesn’t think anything would be. But it helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 3pm, but a Saturday upload! Hopefully that's worth something, and hopefully you enjoyed this chapter! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


	32. Chapter 32

George wakes to warmth, sighing contentedly into the curve of Owen’s shoulder. He presses his face forwards into the crook of Owen’s neck, then stops. He shouldn’t be able to do that. They’d fallen asleep in separate beds, there should at least be - George shifts. There is it. The gap between their beds, gaping under his thigh, only his legs remain in his own bed. At least he’s taken the sheets with him. 

“You awake?” Owen murmurs.

“Yeah,” George rolls back just a touch, enough to blink his eyes open and focus on Owen’s face.

“What’re you doing over here?” Owen asks, voice low, teasing, as he slides a hand from the George’s shoulders up to cup the back of his head.

“Must’ve missed you,” George smiles, guileless. He leans up as Owen leans down, the kiss brief and gentle, a simple ‘good morning’.

“Well I’ve gotta call my mum for her birthday in a minute so you’d better get back in your own bed,” Owen arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah, ‘cause this’d be the first time she’s seen us in bed together,” George rolls his eyes but obliges, sliding back into his own bed, then all the way out as he decides he might as well get up if there’s no time for them to cuddle. “I think she’s stopped worrying about your virtue by now.”

“I’ll have you know I’m very virtuous!” Owen insists, pushing himself to sitting. It’d be more convincing if he wasn’t grinning hard enough to split his face in two.

“Sure,” George says, stopping by Owen on his way to the bathroom. “That’s what I think when I share a bed with you,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on Owen’s shoulder. He gets close enough to feel the bed-warmth radiating from Owen’s skin before continuing, aware with every word of Owen’s gaze focused on his lips. “I think about just how - virtuous, you are.” Then George pushes himself away, pushes Owen back, and saunters to the bathroom.

“Tease!” Owen calls after him - but he’d remembered to keep his voice low, so George can’t have wound him up too much. He finds himself disappointed by the fact.

“Have I got time to shower?” George checks, sticking his head back out the bathroom door. He doesn’t want to miss seeing Colleen on her birthday.

“Yeah, I wanna get dressed before I call anyway - I won’t hang up without you getting to say hello.”

“Thanks,” George smiles, before ducking back into the bathroom and getting ready for the day.

True to his word Owen is still on the video call when George emerges.

“Oh, George is out of the shower,” he tells her, looking to George with a smile.

Owen always smiles when he sees George, even if they’ve only been apart for a few minutes. It makes George’s heart lift every time. 

George perches on the edge of Owen’s bed, “Hi Colleen! Happy birthday!” he greets, leaning in to kiss Owen quickly on the cheek.

“Open our present now,” Owen encourages - George knows he’d been particularly proud of his idea, is both surprised and touched that Owen had waited for him to get there before having Colleen open it. 

“Maybe I want to say hello to George,” Colleen arches an eyebrow. “How are you, George?” she asks, deliberately baiting her son’s impatience.

“Yeah, alright,” George tells her, happy to play along. “Rooms have worked out okay, you know - could have been better, but Owen’s not the worst roommate, not quite.”

Colleen nods understanding. “He has his flaws, but he’ll do.”

“Exactly,” George agrees earnestly. “Training was -”

“Training _is_ soon enough that we should probably move this on, unless you’re are having too much fun,” Owen insists, tapping the his watch - the one George had bought him for his birthday - pointedly.

George exchanges an amused look with Colleen - Owen’s too easy. 

Colleen sighs. “We are having fun, but I suppose opening a present won’t be too much of a hardship.”

In the end Colleen is as pleased with her gift as Owen could have hoped, and George is glad to see her happy too. They’re discussing her plans for the day, and the night she’d had celebrating with Andy before he’d had to leave for Ireland camp, when they’re interrupted by a banging on the door.

“Oi, we can hear that you’re up,” Ben calls. “We gotta go for breakfast, at this rate -” he tries the door. “Hey, is this thing locked?” he tries again.

“Come on, I need food,” Jonny cajoles as George hurries to unlock the door.

Ben is still standing directly in the doorway when George opens it. “What, like we trust you not to prank us in our sleep?” George asks Ben’s frowning face, raising an eyebrow.

“Good morning to you too, Fordy,” Jonny says as Ben pulls a face of dismay. “I’m honoured to know you trust us so much.”

George rolls his eyes. “You _know_ I trust you,” he says pointedly, Jonny softening at the reminder. 

“Me and Georgie were juniors in these villas,” Owen puts in from the bed. “Those habits die hard.”

“Who’re you calling?” Ben asks, peering in. “Not the mystery boyfriend is it? Tell me Fordy doesn’t know the mystery boyfriend!”

George snorts, can’t help himself. “It’s his mum’s birthday,” he explains. “We’ll follow you to breakfast in a bit, yeah? We won’t be late.”

“Come on Lenny,” Jonny coaxes. “I’m starving.”

“Fine,” Ben huffs, conceding bad naturedly. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you,” George bids, Owen echoing him.

George returns to the edge of Owen’s bed as the door slams behind Ben and Jonny. 

“We should go,” Owen tells Colleen regretfully.

“One minute -” Colleen’s gaze flicks between the two of them. “You’re locking your door?”

George shrugs. “I think we got away with it.”

Colleen tilts her head, conceding the point. “What _are_ you two getting up to in there?” she teases, eyes sparkling.

“Look at this handsome mug!” Owen grabs George roughly by the jaw. “You think I could spend a week not kissing him?” 

George wrenches his head away, glaring. “Grab me like that again and I think you might.”

It takes a bare second of Owen looking at him, expression dramatically wounded, for George to soften. He rolls his eyes with a snort, leaning in to drop a kiss on Owen’s cheek. “Or not,” he admits.

Owen grins, looking back to Colleen. “You see, we’ve gotta keep that door locked. I’m irresistible!”

~

George drops heavily into his chair at lunch, every limb aching. How does he always forget how hard they get pushed on off weeks? When he thinks of England camps he thinks of the mixture of his friends, the mental push of meetings, tactics, the enjoyment of training with players as determined to improve as he is, as determined for them _all_ to improve. He even thinks of satisfaction in the gym, sometimes, the glow of pride that comes with pushing what he had previously thought to be limits. He never thinks of this, of the burn and ache deep in his muscles that he just knows will last all day, distract him this afternoon while he’s trying to put his all into tactical meetings.

They do that on purpose, George knows. Tire them out then ask them to think, get their brains used to running on tactical pathways while their bodies scream at them so they can do it on the pitch. The only problem with that is that George has never ached this much on the pitch, has never hurt this deep outside of England camps. He doesn’t understand how he always forgets.

“Alright?” Owen asks, dropping into the seat next to him.

George dredges up a returning smile. “Alright,” he sighs, not bothering to make it convincing.

He lets his knee fall out until it leans against Owen’s, the stretch in the sore muscle worth it for the contact.

“Alright lads?” Jamie asks, joining the table. “Saw you lifting a good amount, Fordy, you sure you’re good to handle your cutlery after all that?”

George levels him a look. “I’m good,” he promises, pushing himself to sit up straighter, move out of the slump that lets his and Owen’s legs brush.

“Good lad,” Elliot praises, joining them. “More of that and you might end up with actual biceps by the end of the internationals.”

George just rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah,” he dismisses.

“Great come back, Fordy,” Jamie laughs.

“He knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Elliot shakes his head sadly.

“The legs are not the problem,” Owen teases, suggestive, pinching George’s thigh.

George arches an eyebrow at Owen. “Yeah?” he prompts, smirk flickering around the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, fuck off,” Owen raps his knuckles sharply on George’s thigh, impact reverberating through the ache of his muscles. “I was trying to be nice, help you out - I’m not feeding your ego too.”

George shrugs, loose. “Too late,” he says.

“Hey, Faz - who’s got the best biceps in the squad?” Elliot asks, flexing obnoxiously.

“Not you,” is all Owen gives him. “I’m not getting suckering into comparing how attractive you guys are, there’s no way that ends well.”

“Going to reveal too much, are you?” Jamie teases.

Owen arches an eyebrow. “Going to wound your egos, more like,” he throws back.

Elliot just laughs at that, the arrival of Lozowski derails the conversation. George is happy of the reprieve, sinking back into contemplation of the upcoming Internationals until he realises Owen is saying every thought he’s currently having to Jamie. George leans forwards to joins that conversation until it’s time for meetings, and they regurgitate the same thoughts all over again.

~

George throws himself on the sofa bodily when he, Owen, Ben and Jonny get get in from dinner that evening.

“Tell me we can drop the posturing in here,” he implores, throwing an aching arm up over his eyes.

It had been a long four hours of meetings after lunch, capped off by a brief but intense on-pitch session. Mostly cardio, next to no skills, just enough to set George’s already aching muscles screaming. The squad had played it off through dinner, but at home with his closest friends George doesn’t want to bother with the pretence.

George blinks his eyes open to see the others looking at each other, Ben squinting exaggeratedly. Of course - George is the one who’s closest to all of them. Ben and Jonny are his best friends, and especially in the wake of the Glasgow match George doesn’t feel the need to waste energy on a mask around them, not when he doesn’t have to. And Owen is - Owen. Owen is the one person he’ll let under all his masks. But Ben and Jonny, much as they’re friends with Owen, don’t know him as well as George does, and Owen is their captain, a man they want to impress. Owen is their captain, and he wants them to be able to look up to him, to see him as the person driving standards, not someone suffering as a result of them. 

“Fine with me,” Owen says suddenly, walking over to lift George’s legs and settling under them with a sigh, propping his own feet up on the coffee table.

“I put icepacks in the freezer this morning,” Jonny offers.

George groans, long and heartfelt. “Bless you,” he says fervently.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you lot,” Ben says archly, sitting on the second sofa. “I feel great - really energised, you know?”

George thinks his own muscles might be about to tremble into jelly, doesn’t believe Ben for a heartbeat.

“You won’t need one of these, then,” Jonny says, returning from the freezer with four icepacks in hand, passing two to Owen.

“Didn’t say that,” Ben mutters.

Jonny rolls his eyes but accepts the concession as enough, giving him an icepack.

George would push for more, but his intended words are cut off with a gasp as Owen wraps an icepack around the back of his calf.

“Here?” Owen murmurs - so he’d noticed the limp George had been trying to hide, pain from the slight injury in his foot exaggerated by the hard work of the day and radiating up his leg.

“I love you,” George tells him seriously. He’d say it regardless of who was giving him pain relief in the moment, doesn’t even notice the significance until Owen bites his lip, gives him a soft look.

Ben gasps, dramatic, before George can do more than register the look - probably for the best. “Careful Fordy!” he says. “Can’t imagine your partner would be too pleased about you telling other men that.”

George rolls his eyes. “Careful where you say that,” he warns casually. 

“Hey,” Ben sits up a little straighter, slipping the icepack he’d had on his knee around to the small of his back. “Hey - we’re the only ones here who know you’re bi, yeah?” he glances at Jonny and Owen, then back to George.

“Yeah?” George confirms. “I mean, a few of the staff know, but yeah, you’re the only players.”

“Huh. Just weird that we’ve ended up together,” Ben shrugs. 

George just shrugs back, too happy with his luck to want to question it.

“Some of the staff know?” Jonny seems surprised.

“Just the senior coaching team and a couple of PR, just in case,” George clarifies. “Not many.”

“When’d you tell them?” Ben demands. “Why’d you tell them?”

“What’s it to you?” George throws back, grumpy enough at the ache in his muscles without fresh tension making the pain worse.

“Thought we were dropping pretence in here,” Owen murmurs, quiet enough that George isn’t sure the others can make out his words.

“That’s not - I guess,” George concedes.

George doesn’t think it’s pretence to not want to talk about it, but when he thinks about it he doesn’t have a good reason why. He’s just not used to it, doesn’t understand why Ben would be interested. Then again, when has he ever understood Ben’s thirst for gossip? He might not be able to spread this, but it’s still exactly the kind of random information Ben soaks up.

“Georgie here kept me company when I told Eddie I was going to come out to the squad, came out with me,” Owen takes up the explanation, rubbing a thumb along George’s calf, along the edge of the icepack. “Eddie told a set of people we decided should be in the loop - though I think most of them had heard about me by then,” he adds ruefully.

Ben blinks. “I remember the chat with Eddie,” he accepts. “But - you hadn’t told O’Connor then -” he’s still talking to George “- you weren’t dating your partner,” he frowns confusion, George pressing his calves down into Owen’s thighs as Ben pauses. “Why?”

“Just - support,” George shrugs.

“Of Owen?” Jonny’s the one asking the questions this time.

“Yeah,” George admits freely. “And to have it if someone reacted really badly to Owen, or said something.”

“What could the coaches do if you didn’t want the lads to know?” Ben asks.

“I _don’t_ want the lads to know,” George stresses the present tense. “And - same as you, really. Move conversation on, and - it’s just good to have back up. Knowing someone understands, or knows, even if there isn’t anything they can actually do in the moment.”

“Didn’t you have that with Faz anyway?” Ben presses.

“Sure,” George shrugs, glancing at Owen. “And that’s - it’s -” George fumbles for words, eyes locked with Owen.

“It’s made a big difference,” Owen holds eye contact. “If I hadn’t had George -”

“If we hadn’t had each other,” George corrects.

Owen smiles, gentle, not bothering to finish the sentence. 

They’ll never know, never have to know, what that kind of isolation can do. They have had each other, right from the start. They always will.

If he could, George would kiss Owen. 

But Ben and Jonny are watching, waiting, so George digs his heels into Owen’s thighs and goes on. “- but there’s nothing wrong with more support, and the coaches can intervene in other areas too. I’ve had great roommates at Leicester this year, don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“You have?” Jonny frowns.

“Never been with Fitz or Garry, or anyone who’s referred to my ‘girlfriend’,” George tells them. Enough of the squad have slipped at least once that there’s no way it can be a coincidence. “That must come from Tom, actually,” George muses. Geordan doesn’t spend enough time in the locker rooms to know the distinctions that well. George will need to thank him.

Jonny is still frowning. “Is - Geordie and Tom are looking out for Jordan, too, right?” he asks George.

George holds up his hands. “Don’t know why you think I’d know!”

Ben snorts.

“Alright, so I brought it up with Tom at the start of the year when they started on him,” George confesses. “He said they were already keeping an eye on it.” 

“So protective, Georgie,” Owen teases, smile soft.

George scowls at him as Ben laughs.

“No wonder he’s got such a crush on you!” Jonny cackles.

“He doesn’t!”

“Georgie…” Owen raises an amused eyebrow.

“No!”

“You’ve spotted it too?” Jonny demands. “Yes Faz! I knew it!”

“We don’t even know if he’s gay,” George insists, that sobering Owen up.

“No, I don’t know,” Owen denies now.

It’s not especially convincing, Ben’s snort letting him know that.

“We’re as bad as Fitz and Garry if we assume, just ‘cause he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” George looks at Ben and Jonny steadily. 

“That’s not what I’m going off,” Jonny says, sighing when George simply maintains his stare. “Yeah, alright.” 

“Point made,” Ben rolls his eyes when George looks at him in turn. 

George nods at their acceptance, glad when Owen changes the subject. 

George doesn’t necessarily think the equivalence is fair but he’ll do what he can to maintain Jordan’s closet walls, no matter how flimsy. He knows just how important they can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow upload once again! I hope you enjoyed this chapter now it's finally here.
> 
> I’m afraid I’m actually going to be putting thunder on hiatus from now on because a) Depression, and b) editing old chapters while writing new ones is absolutely not working now I only have a four chapter buffer. I am absolutely determined to still finish this fic (and still confident that I will!), and to help with that I’m going to do ‘wip Wednesday’ posts every week [on tumblr](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) where I share a sentence (passage? idk we’ll see) I’ve written that week and my weekly word count to keep me accountable to still working on it.
> 
> I am also planning to open up prompts on tumblr from the end of Hanukkah (sunset Dec 18th) to midnight of the winter solstice (Dec 21st) so there will still be Bank Holiday bonus fics! As with last time I won’t promise to write for all the prompts I receive - I’m currently thinking of setting a minimum of 12 for the 12 Days of Christmas. Christmas related prompts are absolutely not required, but they are welcome. If anyone doesn’t have tumblr/doesn’t want to forget you’re welcome to pop prompts in the comments now :)
> 
> Apologies once again for having to put this on hiatus, I hope I'll see you all with a new update soon in the New Year! As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [sport](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments. I hope you and yours are and remain safe and well <3


End file.
